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€l)e  WotH  of  2&aJ5ac 

CENTENARY  EDITION 
VOLUME    III. 


FAME    AND    SORROW 

AND   OTHER   STORIES 


■oceie  C-bu {■.."■ 


CONTENTS. 


F  ME  AND  Sorrow 1 

Colonel  Chabert 93 

The  Atheist's  Mass 193 

La  Grande  BRETiiCHE 221 

The  Purse 255 

La  Grenadi^re •    •    •    .  S03 

A  DOUBLE  LIFE. 

L  The  Second  Life 839 

n.  The  First  Life S84 

m.  Besult ••••  428 

THE  RURAL  BALL. 

L  A  Rebellious  Young  Girl .441 

n.  The  Ball 467 

HI.  In  which  the  Worst  comes  to  the  Worst  489 


THE  DESERTED  WOMAN 618 


^Xii043 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


From  Photogravure  Plates  by  Goupil  ^  Co.,  Paris, 


"The  shop  was  not  yet  lighted  vp"     ,     .  Frontispiece 

"  On   such   days    she    would   sit   beneath   an 

evergreen" Page  328 

Designed  by  Laurekt-Desrousskaux. 

**  The  Abbi^  appeared  in  a  state  of  very  evi- 
dent agitation". 419 

Designed  by  Georges  Cain. 


-. ,  1  >  '  J '  '  » » 

'"••    •>*:.»   ^5    >5  ', 


FAME  AND  SORROW.* 


Dedicated  to  Mademoiselle  Marie  de  Montheaxi. 


About  the  middle  of  the  rue  Saint-Denis,  and  near 
the  corner  of  the  rue  du  Petit-Lion,  there  stood,  not 
very  long  ago,  one  of  those  precious  houses  which 
enable  historians  to  reconstruct  by  analogy  the  Paris 
of  former  times.  The  frowning  walls  of  this  shabby 
building  seemed  to  have  been  originally  decorated  by 
hieroglyphics.  What  other  name  could  a  passing  ob- 
server give  to  the  X's  and  the  Y's  traced  upon  them 
by  the  transversal  or  diagonal  pieces  of  wood  which 
showed  under  the  stucco  through  a  number  of  little 
parallel  cracks?  Evidently,  the  jar  of  each  passing 
carriage  shook  the  old  joists  in  their  plaster  coatings. 

1  This  was  the  title  {Gloire  et  Malheur)  under  which  the  story- 
was  first  published  in  1830.  The  name  was  changed  in  1842  to 
La  Maison  du  Chat-qui-pelote.  The  awkwardness  of  the  title  in 
English  (The  House  of  the  Cat-play ing-ball)  leads  the  translator 
to  use  the  original  name  given  by  Balzac. 

1 


2  .  Fame  and  Sorrow. 


, The,  .venerable  .building  was  covered  with  a  triangular 
ci-dof^'a  shape  G^Sv'hibh  no  specimen  will  exist  much 
longer  in  Paris.  This  roof,  twisted  out  of  line  by  the 
inclemencies  of  Parisian  weather,  overhung  the  street 
b}'  about  three  feet,  as  much  to  protect  the  door-steps 
from  the  rain  as  to  shelter  the  wall  of  the  garret  and  its 
frameless  window ;  for  the  upper  storej'  was  built  of 
planks,  nailed  one  above  the  other  like  slates,  so  as  not 
to  overweight  the  construction  beneath  it. 

On  a  rain}^  morning  in  the  month  of  March,  a  3'oung 
man  carefully  wrapped  in  a  cloak  was  standing  beneath 
the  awning  of  a  shop  directly  opposite  to  the  old  build- 
ing, which  he  examined  with  the  enthusiasm  of  an  archse* 
ologist ;  for,  in  truth,  this  relic  of  the  bourgeoisie  of  the 
sixteenth  century  presented  more  than  one  problem  to 
the  mind  of  an  intelligent  observer.  Each  storey  had 
its  own  peculiarity  ;  on  the  first  were  four  long,  nari'ow 
windows  verj^  close  to  each  other,  with  wooden  squares 
in  place  of  glass  panes  to  the  lower  sash,  so  as  to  give 
the  uncertain  light  by  which  a  clever  shopkeeper  can 
make  his  goods  match  any  color  desired  b}'  a  customer. ' 

The  young  man  seemed  to  disdain  this  important  part 
of  the  house ;  in  fact,  his  eyes  had  not  even  rested  on 
it.  The  windows  of  the  second  floor,  the  raised  outer 
blinds  of  which  gave  to  sight  through  large  panes  of 
Bohemian  glass  small  muslin  curtains  of  a  reddish  tinge, 
seemed  also  not  to  interest  him.     His  attention  centred 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  3 

on  the  third  store}', — on  certain  humble  windows,  the 
wooden  frames  of  which  deserved  a  place  in  the  Con- 
eervatory  of  Arts  and  Manufactures  as  specimens  of 
the  earliest  efforts  of  French  joinery.  These  windows 
liad  little  panes  of  so  green  a  glass  that  had  he  not 
possessed  an  excellent  pair  of  eyes  the  young  man  could 
not  have  seen  the  blue-checked  curtains  which  hid  the 
mysteries  of  the  room  from  the  gaze  of  the  profane. 
Occasionall}'  the  watcher,  as  if  tired  of  his  abortive 
watch,  or  annoyed  by  the  silence  in  which  the  house 
was  buried,  dropped  his  eyes  to  the  lower  regions.  An 
involuntary  smile  would  then  flicker  on  his  lips  as  he 
glanced  at  the  shop,  where,  indeed,  were  certain  things 
that  were  laughable  enough. 

A  formidable  beam  of  wood,  resting  horizontally  on 
four  pillars  which  appeared  to  bend  under  the  weight  of 
the  decrepit  house,  had  received  as  many  and  diverse 
coats  of  paint  as  the  cheek  of  an  old  duchess.  At  the 
middle  of  this  large  beam,  slightl}^  carved,  was  an  an- 
tique picture  representing  a  cat  playing  ball.  It  was 
this  work  of  art  which  made  the  young  man  smile  ;  and 
it  must  be  owned  that  not  the  cleverest  of  modern 
painters  could  have  invented  a  more  comical  design. 
The  animal  held  in  one  of  its  fore-paws  a  racket  as  big 
as  itself,  and  stood  up  on  its  hind  paws  to  aim  at  an 
enormous  ball  which  a  gentleman  in  a  brocaded  coat  was 
tossing  to  it.     Design,  colors,  and  accessories  were  all 


4  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

treated  in  a  wa}'  to  inspire  a  belief  that  the  artist  meant 
to  make  fun  of  both  merchant  and  customers.  Time, 
b}'  altering  the  crude  colors,  had  made  the  picture  still 
more  grotesque  through  certain  bewildering  changes, 
which  could  not  fail  to  trouble  a  conscientious  observer. 
For  instance,  the  ringed  tail  of  the  cat  was  cut  apart  in 
such  a  way  that  the  end  might  be  taken  for  an  onlooker, 
so  thick,  long,  and  well-covered  were  the  tails  of  the 
cats  of  our  ancestors.  To  the  right  of  the  picture,  on  a 
blue  ground,  which  imperfectlj'  concealed  the  rotten 
wood,  could  be  read  the  name  *'  Guillaume,"  and  to  the 
left  the  words  *'  Successor  to  the  Siedr  Chevrel." 

Sun  and  rain  had  tarnished  or  washed  off  the  greater 
part  of  the  gilding  parsimoniously  bestowed  upon  th« 
letters  of  this  inscription,  in  which  U's  stood  in  place  of 
V's,  and  vice  versa^  according  to  the  rules  of  our  ancient 
orthograph3\  In  order  to  bring  down  the  pride  of  those 
who  think  the  world  is  daily  growing  cleverer  and  wit- 
tier, and  that  modern  claptrappery  surpasses  everything 
that  went  before,  it  may  be  well  to  mention  here  that 
such  signs  as  these,  the  etymology  of  which  seems  fan- 
tastic to  man}'  Parisian  merchants,  are  reall}^  the  dead 
pictures  of  once  living  realities  by  which  our  lively  an- 
cestors contrived  to  entice  customers  into  their  shops. 
Thus,  "The  Sow  a-Spinning,"  '^The  Green  Monkey," 
and  so  forth,  were  live  animals  in  cages,  whose  clever 
tricks  delighted  the  passers  in  the  streets,  and  whose 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  5 

training  proved  the  patience  of  the  shopkeepers  of  the 
fifteenth  centur}'.  Such  natural  curiosities  brought  bet- 
ter profits  to  their  fortunate  possessors  than  the  fine 
names,  ''  Good  Faith,"  ''  Providence,"  ''  The  Grace  of 
God,"  "The  Decapitation  of  Saint  John  the  Baptist," 
which  are  still  to  be  seen  in  that  same  rue  Saint-Denis. 

However,  our  unknown  3'oung  man  was  certainly  not 
stationed  there  to  admire  the  cat,  which  a  moment's 
notice  sufficed  to  fix  in  his  memory.  He  too,  had  his 
peculiarities.  His  cloak,  flung  about  him  after  the  man- 
ner of  antique  draperj^,  left  to  sight  the  elegant  shoes 
and  white  silk  stockings  on  his  feet,  which  were  all  the 
more  noticeable  in  the  midst  of  that  Pansian  mud, 
several  spots  of  which  seemed  to  prove  the  haste  with 
which  he  had  made  his  way  there.  No  doubt  he  had 
just  left  a  wedding  or  a  ball,  for  at  this  earl}-  hour  of 
the  morning  he  held  a  pair  of  white  gloves  in  his  hand, 
and  the  curls  of  his  black  hair,  now  uncurled  and  tum- 
bling on  his  shoulders,  seemed  to  indicate  a  style  of 
wearing  it  called  "  Caracalla,"  a  fashion  set  b}-  the 
painter  David  and  his  school,  and  followed  with  that 
devotion  to  Greek  and  Roman  ideas  and  shapes  which 
marked  the  earlier  years  of  this  century. 

In  spite  of  the  noise  made  by  a  few  belated  kitchen- 
gardeners  as  they  gallopped  their  cartloads  of  produce 
to  the  markets,  the  street  was  still  hushed  in  that  calm 
stillness  the  magic  of  which  is  known  only  to  those  who 


6  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

wander  about  a  deserted  Paris  at  the  hour  when  its 
nightly  uproar  ceases  for  a  moment,  then  reawakes  and 
is  heard  in  the  distance  Uke  the  voice  of  Ocean. 

This  singular  3'oung  man  must  have  seemed  as  odd 
to  the  shopkeepers  of  the  Cat-playing-ball  as  the  Cat- 
pi  ay  ing-ball  seemed  to  him.  A  dazzling  white  cravat 
made  his  harassed  white  face  even  paler  than  it  really 
was.  The  fire  of  his  black  eyes,  that  were  sparkling 
and  yet  gloomy,  harmonized  with  the  eccentric  outline 
of  his  face,  and  with  his  large,  sinuous  mouth,  which  con- 
tracted when  he  smiled.  His  forehead,  wrinkling  under 
any  violent  annoyance,  had  something  fatal  about  it. 
The  forehead  is  surely  the  most  prophetic  feature  of  the 
face.  When  that  of  this  unknown  young  man  expressed 
anger,  the  creases  which  immediately  showed  upon  it 
excited  a  sort  of  terror,  through  the  force  of  passion 
which  brought  them  there ;  but  the  moment  he  recov- 
ered his  calmness,  so  easily  shaken,  the  brow  shone 
with  a  luminous  grace  that  embellished  the  whole  coun- 
tenance, where  joy  and  grief,  love,  anger,  and  disdain 
flashed  forth  in  so  communicative  a  way  that  the  coldest 
of  men  was  inevitably  impressed. 

It  chanced  that  the  man  was  so  annoyed  at  the  mo- 
ment when  some  one  hastily  opened  the  garret  window, 
that  he  missed  seeing  three  joyous  faces,  plump,  and 
white,  and  rosy,  but  also  as  commonplace  as  those  given 
to  the  statues  of  Commerce  on  public  buildings.     These 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  7 

three  heads  framed  b)^  the  open  window,  recalled  the 
puffy  angel  faces  scattered  among  the  clouds,  which 
usually  accompany  the  Eternal  Father.  The  appren- 
tices were  inhaling  the  emanations  from  the  street  with 
an  eagerness  which  showed  how  hot  and  mephitic  the 
atmosphere  of  their  garret  must  have  been.  The  elder 
of  the  three  clerks,  after  pointing  out  to  his  companions 
the  stranger  in  the  street,  disappeared  for  a  moment 
and  then  returned,  holding  in  his  hand  an  instrument 
whose  inflexible  metal  has  latel}^  been  replaced  by  sup- 
ple leather.  Thereupon  a  mischievous  expression  came 
upon  all  three  faces  as  they  looked  at  the  singular  watch- 
er, while  the  elder  proceeded  to  shower  him  with  a  fine 
white  rain,  the  odor  of  which  proved  that  three  chins 
had  just  been  shaved.  Standing  back  in  the  room  on 
tiptoe  to  enjoy  their  victim's  rage,  the  clerks  all  stopped 
laugliing  when  they  saw  the  careless  disdain  with  which 
the  5'oung  man  shook  the  drops  from  his  mantle,  and 
the  profound  contempt  apparent  on  his  face  when  he 
raised  his  ej^es  to  the  now  vacant  window. 

Just  then  a  delicate  white  hand  lifted  the  lower  part 
of  one  of  the  roughly  made  windows  on  the  third  floor 
by  means  of  those  old-fashioned  grooves,  whose  pulleys 
so  often  let  fall  the  heav}-  sashes  the}-  were  intended  to 
hold  up.  The  watcher  was  rewarded  for  his  long  wait- 
ing. The  face  of  a  young  girl,  fresh  as  the  white  lilies 
that  bloom  on  the  surface  of  a  lake,  appeared,  framed 


8  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

hy  a  rumpled  muslin  cap,  which  gave  a  delightful  look 
of  innocence  to  the  head.  Her  neck  and  shoulders, 
though  covered  with  some  brown  stuff,  were  plainly 
seen  through  rifts  in  the  garment  opened  by  movements 
made  in  sleep.  No  sign  of  constraint  marred  the  in- 
genuous expression  of  that  face  nor  the  calm  of  those 
eyes,  immortalized  already  in  the  sublime  conceptions 
of  Raffaelle  ;  here  was  the  same  grace,  the  same  virgin 
tranquillity  now  become  proverbial.  A  charming  con- 
trast was  produced  by  the  youth  of  the  cheeks,  on  which 
sleep  had  thrown  into  relief  a  superabundance  of  life, 
and  the  age  of  the  massive  window,  with  its  coarse 
frame  now  blackened  b}'  time.  Like  those  day-bloom- 
ing flowers  which  in  the  early  morning  have  not  as  jqX, 
unfolded  their  tunics  tightly  closed  against  the  chill  of 
night,  the  young  girl,  scarcely  awake,  let  her  eyes  wan- 
der across  the  neighboring  roofs  and  upward  to  the  sk}' ; 
then  she  lowered  them  to  the  gloomy  precincts  of  the 
street,  where  they  at  once  encountered  those  of  her 
adorer.  No  doubt  her  innate  coquetry  caused  her  a 
pang  of  mortification  at  being  seen  in  such  dishabille, 
for  she  quickly  drew  back,  the  worn-out  sash-pulle}' 
turned,  the  window  came  down  with  a  rapidity  which 
has  earned,  in  our  da}',  an  odious  name  for  that  naive 
invention  of  our  ancestors,  and  the  vision  disappeared. 
The  brightest  of  the  stars  of  the  morning  seemed  to  the 
young  man  to  have  passed  suddenly  under  a  cloud. 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  9 

While  these  trifling  events  were  occurring,  the  heavy 
inside  shutters  which  protected  the  thin  glass  of  the 
windows  in  the  shop,  called  the  House  of  the  Cat- 
playing-ball,  had  been  opened  as  if  b^^  magic.  The 
door,  with  its  old  fashioned  knocker,  was  set  back 
against  the  inner  wall  by  a  serving-man,  who  might 
have  been  contemporary  with  the  sign  itself,  and  whose 
shaking  hand  fastened  to  the  picture  a  square  bit  of 
cloth,  on  which  were  embroidered  in  yellow  silk  the 
words,  "  Guillaume,  successor  to  Chevrel."  More  than 
one  pedestrian  would  have  been  unable  to  guess  the 
business  in  which  the  said  Guillaume  was  engaged. 
Through  the  heavy  iron  bars  which  protected  the  shop 
window  on  the  outside,  it  was  difficult  to  see  the  bales 
wrapped  in  brown  linen,  which  were  as  numerous  as  a 
school  of  herrings  on  their  way  across  tlie  ocean.  In 
spite  of  the  apparent  simplicity  of  this  gothic  facade, 
Monsieur  Guillaume  was  among  the  best  known  drapers 
in  Paris,  one  whose  shop  was  always  well  supplied, 
whose  business  relations  were  widely  extended,  and 
whose  commercial  honor  no  one  had  ever  doubted.  If 
some  of  his  fellow-tradesmen  made  contracts  with  the 
government  without  possessing  cloth  enough  to  fulfil 
them,  he  was  always  able  and  willing  to  lend  them 
enough  to  make  up  deficiencies,  however  large  the  num- 
ber contracted  for  might  be.  The  shrewd  dealer  knew 
a  hundred  ways  of  drawing  the  lion's  share  of  profits  to 


10  Fame  and  Sorrotv, 

himself  without  being  forced,  Hke  the  others,  to  beg  for 
influence,  or  do  base  things,  or  give  rich  presents.  If 
the  ti*adesmen  he  thus  assisted  could  not  pay  the  loan 
except  by  long  drafts  on  good  security,  he  referred 
thera  to  his  notar}',  like  an  accommodating  man,  and 
managed  to  get  a  double  profit  out  of  the  affair;  an 
expedient  which  led  to  a  remark,  almost  proverbial  in 
the  rue  Saint-Denis,  "  God  keep  us  from  the  notary  of 
Monsieur  Guillaume ! " 

The  old  dealer  happened,  as  if  by  some  miraculous 
chance,  to  be  standing  at  the  open  door  of  his  shop 
just  as  the  servant,  having  finished  that  part  of  his 
morning  duty,  withdrew.  Monsieur  Guillaume  looked 
up  and  down  the  rue  Saint-Denis,  then  at  the  adjoining 
shops,  and  then  at  the  weather,  like  a  man  landing 
at  Havre  who  sees  France  again  after  a  long  voy- 
age. Having  full}-  convinced  himself  that  nothing  had 
changed  since  he  went  to  sleep  the  night  before,  he 
now  perceived  the  man  doing  sentry  dut}^,  who,  on  his 
side,  was  examining  the  patriarch  of  drapery  \qv\  much 
as  Humboldt  must  have  examined  the  first  electric  eel 
which  he  saw  in  America. 

Monsieur  Guillaume  wore  wide  breeches  of  black 
velvet,  dyed  stockings,  and  square  shoes  with  silver 
buckles ;  his  coat,  made  with  square  lappels,  square 
skirts,  and  square  collar,  wrapped  a  figure,  slightly  bent, 
in  its  loose  folds  of  greenish  cloth,  and  was  fastened  with 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  11 

large,  white,  metal  buttons  tarnished  from  use  ;  his  gray 
hair  was  so  carefully  combed  and  plastered  to  his  yel- 
low skull  that  the  two  presented  somewhat  the  effect  of 
a  ploughed  field  ;  his  little  green  eyes,  sharp  as  gimlets, 
glittered  under  lids  whose  pale  red  edges  took  the  place 
of  lashes.  Care  had  furrowed  his  brow  with  as  many 
horizontal  lines  as  there  were  folds  in  his  coat.  The 
pallid  face  bespoke  patience,  commercial  wisdom,  and 
a  species  of  sly  cupidity  acquired  in  business. 

At  the  period  of  which  we  write  it  was  less  rare  than 
it  is  now  to  meet  with  old  commercial  families  who  pre- 
served as  precious  traditions  the  manners,  customs,  and 
characteristics  of  their  particular  callings ;  and  who 
remained,  in  the  midst  of  the  new  civilization,  as  ante- 
diluvian as  the  fossils  discovered  by  Cuvier  in  the  quar* 
ries.  The  head  of  the  Guillaume  family  was  one  of  these 
noteworthy  guardians  of  old  customs  ;  he  even  regretted 
the  provost-marshal  of  merchants,  and  never  spoke  of  a 
decision  in  the  court  of  commerce  without  calUng  it  "  the 
sentence  of  the  consuls."  Having  risen,  in  accordance 
with  these  customs,  the  earliest  in  the  house,  he  was 
now  awaiting  with  a  determined  air  the  arrival  of  his 
three  clerks,  intending  to  scold  them  if  a  trifle  late. 
Those  heedless  disciples  of  Mercurj'  knew  nothing  more 
appalling  than  the  silent  observation  with  which  the 
master  scrutinized  their  faces  and  their  movements  of  a 
Monday  morning,  searching  for  proofs  or  traces  of  their 


12  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

frolics.  But,  strange  to  say,  just  as  they  appeared,  the 
old  draper  paid  no  attention  to  his  apprentices  ;  he  was 
engaged  in  finding  a  motive  for  the  evident  interest 
with  which  the  young  man  in  silk  stockings  and  a 
cloak  turned  his  eyes  alternatel}^  on  the  pictured  sign 
and  then  into  the  depths  of  the  shop.  The  daylight, 
now  increasing,  showed  the  counting-room  behind  an 
iron  railing  covered  by  curtains  of  faded  green  silk, 
where  Monsieur  Guillaume  kept  his  huge  books,  the  mute 
oracles  of  his  business.  The  too  inquisitive  stranger 
seemed  to  have  an  eye  on  them,  and  also  to  be  scruti- 
nizing the  adjoining  dining-room,  where  the  family, 
when  assembled  for  a  meal,  could  see  whatever  hap- 
pened at  the  entrance  of  the  shop.  So  great  an  interest 
in  his  private  premises  seemed  suspicious  to  the  eld 
merchant,  who  had  lived  under  the  law  of  the  maxi- 
mum. Consequently,  Monsieur  Guillaume  supposed, 
not  unnaturally,  that  the  doubtful  stranger  had  designs 
upon  his  strong-box. 

The  elder  of  the  clerks,  after  discreetly  enjoying  the 
silent  duel  which  was  taking  place  between  his  master 
and  the  stranger,  ventured  to  come  out  upon  the  step 
where  stood  Monsieur  Guillaume,  and  there  he  observed 
that  the  young  man  was  glancing  furtivel}^  at  the  third- 
floor  windows.  The  clerk  made  three  steps  into  the 
street,  looked  up,  and  fancied  he  caught  sight  of  Ma- 
demoiselle Augustine  Guillaume  hastily  retiring.    Dis- 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  13 

pleased  with  this  show  of  perspicacitj'  on  the  part  of  his 
head-clerk,  the  draper  looked  askance  at  his  subordi- 
nate. Then  suddenly  the  mutual  anxieties  excited  in 
the  souls  of  lover  and  merchant  were  allayed,  —  the 
stranger  hailed  a  passing  hackney  coach,  and  jumped 
into  it  with  a  deceitful  air  of  indifference.  His  depart- 
ure shed  a  sort  of  balm  into  the  souls  of  the  other 
clerks,  who  were  somewhat  uneasy  at  the  presence  of 
their  victim. 

"  Well,  gentlemen,  what  are  you  about,  standing 
there  with  your  arms  crossed  ?  "  said  Monsieur  Guil- 
laume  to  his  three  neophytes.  "  In  my  da}',  good 
faith,  when  I  was  under  the  Sieur  Chevrel,  I  had  ex- 
amined two  pieces  of  cloth  before  this  time  of  day ! " 

"  Then  it  must  have  been  daylight  earlier,"  said  the 
second  clerk,  whose  duty  it  was  to  examine  the  rolls. 

The  old  dealer  could  not  help  smiling.  Though  two 
of  the  three  clerks,  consigned  to  his  care  by  their  fath- 
ers, rich  manufacturers  at  Louviers  and  Sedan,  had  only 
to  ask  on  the  day  they  came  of  age  for  a  hundred  thou- 
sand francs,  to  have  them,  Guillaume  believed  it  to  be 
his  duty  to  keep  them  under  the  iron  rod  of  an  old- 
fashioned  despotism,  wholly  unknown  in  these  daj^s  in 
our  brilliant  modern  shops,  where  the  clerks  expect  to 
be  rich  men  at  thirty,  —  he  made  them  work  like  negro 
slaves.  His  three  clerks  did  as  much  as  would  have 
tired  out  ten  of  the  modern  sybarites  whose  laziness 


14  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

swells  the  columns  of  a  budget.  No  sound  ever  broke 
the  stillness  of  that  solemn  establishment,  where  all 
*binges  were  oiled,  and  the  smallest  article  of  furniture 
was  kept  with  a  virtuous  nicety  which  showed  severe 
economy  and  the  strictest  order.  Sometimes  the  gid- 
diest of  the  three  clerks  ventured  to  scratch  upon  the 
rind  of  the  Gruyere  cheese,  which  was  delivered  to 
them  at  breakfast  and  scrupulously  respected  by  them, 
the  date  of  its  first  deliver}^  This  prank,  and  a  few 
others  of  a  like  kind,  would  occasionally  bring  a  smile 
to  the  lips  of  Guillaume's  youngest  daughter,  the  pretty 
maiden  who  had  just  passed  like  a  vision  before  the 
ej'es  of  the  enchanted  watcher. 

Though  each  of  the  apprentices  paid  a  large  sum  for 
hi-^  board,  not  one  of  them  would  have  dared  to  remain 
at  table  until  the  dessert  was  served.  When  Madame 
Guillaume  made  read}'  to  mix  the  salad,  the  poor  young 
fellows  trembled  to  think  with  what  parsimon}'  that  pru- 
dent hand  would  pour  the  oil.  They  were  not  allowed 
to  pass  a  night  off  the  premises  without  giving  long 
notice  and  plausible  reasons  for  the  irregularity.  Every 
Sunday  two  clerks,  taking  the  honor  by  turns,  accom- 
panied the  Guillaume  family  to  mass  and  to  vespers. 
Mesdemoiselles  Virginie  and  Augustine,  Gillaume's  two 
daughters,  modestly  attired  in  printed  cotton  gowns, 
each  took  the  arm  of  a  clerk  and  walked  in  front, 
beneath  the  piercing  eyes  of  their  mother,  who  brought 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  15 

up  the  domestic  procession  with  her  husband,  com- 
pelled by  her  to  carry  two  large  prayer-books  bound 
in  black  morocco.  The  second  clerk  received  no  salary ; 
as  to  the  elder,  whom  twelve  years  of  perseverance  and 
discretion  had  initiated  into  the  secrets  of  the  establish- 
ment, he  received  twelve  hundred  francs  a  3'ear  in  re- 
turn for  his  services.  On  certain  family  l(^te-days  a  few 
gifts  were  bestowed  upon  him,  the  sole  value  of  which 
lay  in  the  labor  of  Madame  Guillaume's  lean  and  wrinkled 
hands,  —  knitted  purses,  which  she  took  care  to  stuff 
with  cotton  wool  to  show  their  patterns,  braces  of  the 
strongest  construction,  or  silk  stockings  of  the  heaviest 
make.  Sometimes,  but  rarely,  this  prime  minister  was 
allowed  to  share  the  enjo3'ments  of  the  family  when  they 
spent  a  day  in  the  country  or,  after  months  of  deliber- 
ation, they  decided  to  hire  a  box  at  the  theatre,  and 
use  their  right  to  demand  some  play  of  which  Paris  had 
long  been  weary. 

As  to  the  other  clerks,  the  barrier  of  respect  which 
formerly  separated  a  master  draper  from  his  appren- 
tices was  so  firmly  fixed  between  them  and  the  old 
merchant  that  they  would  have  feared  less  to  steal  a 
piece  of  cloth  than  to  break  through  that  august  eti- 
quette. This  deference  may  seem  preposterous  in  our 
day,  but  these  old  houses  were  schools  of  commercial 
honesty  and  dignity.  The  masters  adopted  the  appren- 
tices ;  their  linen  was  cared  for,  mended,  and  often  re- 


16  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

newed  by  the  mistress  of  the  house.  If  a  clerk  fell  ill 
the  attention  he  received  was  truly  maternal ;  in  case  of 
danger  the  master  spared  no  money  and  called  in  the 
best  doctors,  for  he  held  himself  answerable  to  the 
parents  of  these  j'oung  men  for  their  health  as  well  as 
for  their  morals  and  their  business  training.  If  one  of 
them,  honorable  by  nature,  was  overtaken  \)y  some  dis- 
aster, these  old  merchants  knew  how  to  appreciate  the 
real  intelligence  such  a  j'outh  had  displayed,  and  often 
did  not  hesitate  to  trust  the  happiness  of  a  daughter  to 
one  to  whom  the}^  had  already  confided  the  care  of  their 
business.  Guillaume  was  one  of  these  old-fashioned  busi- 
ness men ;  if  he  had  their  absurdities,  he  had  also  their 
fine  qualities.  Thus  it  was  that  Joseph  Lebas,  his  head- 
clerk,  an  orphan  without  property,  was,  to  his  mind,  a 
suitable  husband  for  Virginie,  his  eldest  daughter.  But 
Joseph  did  not  share  these  cut-and-dried  opinions  of 
his  master,  who,  for  an  empire,  would  not  have  married 
his  3^oungest  daughter  before  the  elder.  The  unfortu-  \ 
nate  clerk  felt  that  his  heart  was  given  to  Mademoiselle 
Augustine,  the  j^ounger  sister.  To  explain  this  passion, 
which  had  grown  up  secretly,  we  must  look  further  into 
the  system  of  autocratic  government  which  ruled  the 
house  and  home  of  the  old  merchant  draper. 

Guillaume  had  two  daughters.  The  eldest,  Made- 
moiselle Virginie,  was  a  reproduction  of  her  mother. 
Madame  Guillaume,  daughter  of  the  Sieur  Chevrel,  sat. 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  17 

so  firmly  upright  behind  her  counter  that  she  had  more 
than  once  overheard  bets  as  to  her  being  impaled  there. 
Her  long,  thin  face  expressed  a  sanctimonious  piety 
Madame  Guillaume,  devoid  of  all  grace  and  without 
amiability  of  manner,  covered  her  sexagenary  head  with 
a  bonnet  of  invariable  shape  trimmed  with  long  lappets 
like  those  of  a  widow.  The  whole  neighborhood  called 
her  *'the  nun."  Her  words  were  few;  her  gestures 
sudden  and  jerky,  like  the  action  of  a  telegraph.  Her 
eyes,  clear  as  those  of  a  cat,  seemed  to  dislike  the 
whole  world  because  she  herself  was  ugly.  Mademoi- 
selle Virginie,  brought  up,  like  her  3'ounger  sister,  under 
the  domestic  rule  of  her  mother,  was  now  twent3'-eight 
years  of  age.  Youth  softened  the  ill-favored,  awkward 
air  which  her  resemblance  to  her  mother  gave  at  times 
to  her  appearance  ;  but  maternal  severit}'  had  bestowed 
upon  her  two  great  qualities  which  counterbalanced  the 
rest  of  her  inheritance,  —  she  was  gentle  and  patient. 
Mademoiselle  Augustine,  now  scarcely  eighteen  j'ears 
old,  was  like  neither  father  nor  mother.  She  was  one 
of  those  girls  who,  b}'  the  absence  of  all  ph3'sical  ties 
to  their  parents,  seem  to  justify  the  saying  of  prudes, 
''God  sends  the  children."  Augustine  was  small,  or, 
to  give  a  better  idea  of  her,  delicate.  Graceful  and  full 
of  simplicity  and  candor,  a  man  of  the  world  could  have 
found  no  fault  with  the  charming  creature  except  that 
her  gestures  were  unmeaning  and  her  attitudes  occasion- 


18  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

all}^  common,  or  even  awkward.  Her  silent  and  qui- 
escent face  expressed  the  fleeting  melancholy  which 
fastens  upon  all  young  girls  who  are  too  feeble  to  dare 
resist  the  will  of  a  domineering  mother. 

Alwaj's  modestly  dressed,  the  two  sisters  had  no  way 
of  satisfying  the  innate  coquetry  of  their  woman's  nature 
except  by  a  luxury  of  cleanliness  and  neatness  which 
became  them  wonderfully,  and  put  them  in  keeping 
with  the  shining  counters  and  shelves  on  which  the  old 
servant  allowed  not  a  speck  of  dust  to  settle,  —  in 
keeping,  too,  with  the  antique  simplicity  of  everything 
about  them.  Forced  by  such  a  life  to  find  the  elements 
of  happiness  in  regular  occupation,  Augustine  and  Vir- 
ginie  had  up  to  this  time  given  nothing  but  satisfac- 
tion to  their  mother,  who  secretly  congratulated  herself 
on  the  perfect  characters  of  her  two  daughters.  It  is 
easy  to  imagine  the  results  of  such  an  education  as 
they  had  received.  Brought  up  in  the  midst  of  busi- 
ness, accustomed  to  hear  arguments  and  calculations 
that  were  grievousl}^  mercantile,  taught  grammar,  book- 
keeping, a  little  Jewish  history,  a  little  French  history 
in  La  Ragois,  and  allowed  to  read  no  books  but  those 
their  mother  sanctioned,  it  is  unnecessary  to  say  that 
their  ideas  were  limited  ;  but  they  knew  how  to  manage 
a  household  admirably  ;  they  understood  the  value  and 
the  cost  of  things ;  they  appreciated  the  difficulties  in 
the  wa}^  of  amassing  money  ;  they  were  economical  and 


Fame  and  Sorroio,  19 

full  of  respect  for  the  faculties  and  qualities  of  men  of 
business.  In  spite  of  their  father's  wealth,  ihey  were 
as  clever  at  darning  as  they  were  at  embroidery  ;  their 
mother  talked  of  teaching  them  to  cook,  so  that  they 
might  know  how  to  order  a  dinner  and  scold  the  cook 
from  actual  experience. 

These  girls,  who  were  ignorant  of  the  pleasures  of  the 
world  and  saw  only  the  peaceful  current  of  their  parents* 
exemplary  lives,  seldom  cast  their  3'outhful  e3'es  bej'ond 
the  precincts  of  that  old  patrimonial  house,  which  to 
their  mother  was  the  universe.  The  parties  occasioned 
by  certain  famil}-  solemnities  formed  the  whole  horizon 
of  their  terrestrial  joys.  When  the  large  salon  on  the 
second  floor  was  thrown  open  to  receive  guests,  —  such 
as  Madame  Roguin,  formerly  Mademoiselle  Chevrel, 
fifteen  years  3'ounger  than  her  cousin,  and  who  wore 
diamonds  ;  young  Rabourdin,  head-clerk  at  the  ministry 
of  Finance ;  Monsieur  Caesar  Birotteau,  the  rich  per- 
fumer, and  his  wife,  called  Madame  Caesar ;  Monsieur 
Camusot,  the  richest  silk  merchant  in  the  rue  des  Bour- 
donnais ;  his  father-in-law,  Monsieur  Cardot ;  two  or 
three  old  bankers,  and  certain  irreproachable  women,  — 
then  the  preparations  in  getting  out  the  silver  plate,  the 
Dresden  china,  the  wax  candles,  the  choice  glass,  all 
carefully  packed  away,  were  a  diversion  to  the  monoto- 
nous lives  of  the  three  women,  who  went  and  came, 
with  as  many  steps  and  as  much  fuss  as  though  they 


20  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

were  nuns  preparing  for  the  reception  of  their  bishop. 
Then,  at  night,  when  all  three  were  tired  out  with  the 
exertion  of  wiping,  rubbing,  unpacking,  and  putting  in 
their  places  the  ornaments  of  these  festivals,  and  the 
3'oung  girls  were  helping  their  mother  to  go  to  bed, 
Madame  Guillaume  would  say,  ''My  dears,  we  have 
really  accomplished  nothing." 

If,  at  these  solemn  assemblies,  the  pious  creature  al- 
lowed a  little  dancing,  and  kept  the  whist  and  the 
boston  and  the  tric-trac  players  to  the  confines  of  her 
own  bedroom,  the  concession  was  accepted  as  an  un- 
hoped-for felicit}^,  and  gave  as  much  happiness  as  the 
two  or  three  public  balls  to  which  Guillaume  took  his 
daughters  during  the  carnival.  Once  a  year  the  worthy 
draper  himself  gave  an  entertainment  on  which  he 
spared  no  expense.  However  rich  and  elegant  the  in- 
vited guests  might  be,  they  took  care  not  to  miss  that 
fete ;  for  the  most  important  business  houses  in  the 
city  often  had  recourse  to  the  vast  credit,  or  the  wealth, 
or  the  great  experience  of  Monsieur  Guillaume.  The 
two  daughters  of  the  worthy  merchant  did  not,  however, 
profit  as  much  as  might  be  thought  from  the  instructions 
which  society  oflfers  to  young  minds.  Thej^  wore  at 
these  entertainments  (bills  of  exchange,  as  it  were,  upon 
futurity)  wreaths  and  ornaments  of  so  common  a  kind 
as  to  make  them  blush.  Their  st^'le  of  dancing  was  not 
of  the  best,  and  maternal  vigilance  allowed  them  to  say 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  21 

only  "  Yes  "  or  *'  No  "  to  their  partners.  Then  the  invari- 
able domestic  rule  of  the  Cat-playing-ball  obliged  them 
to  retire  at  eleven  o'clock,  just  as  the  party  was  getting 
animated.  So  their  pleasures,  apparently  conformable 
with  their  father's  wealth,  were  really  dull  and  insipid 
through  circumstances  derived  from  the  habits  and 
principles  of  their  family. 

As  to  their  daily  life,  a  single  fact  will  suffice  to  paint 
it.  Madame  Guillaume  required  her  daughters  to  dress 
for  the  day  in  the  early  morning,  to  come  downstairs 
at  precisely  the  same  hour,  and  to  arrange  their  occu- 
pations with  monastic  regularity.  Yet,  with  all  this, 
chance  had  bestowed  upon  Augustine  a  soul  that  was 
able  to  feel  the  void  of  such  an  existence.  Sometimes 
those  blue  ej^es  were  lifted  for  a  moment  as  if  to  ques- 
tion the  dark  depths  of  the  stairway  or  the  damp  shop. 
Listening  to  the  cloistral  silence  her  ears  seemed  to  hear 
from  afar  confused  revelations  of  the  passionate  life, 
which  counts  emotions  as  of  more  value  than  things.  At 
such  moments  the  girl's  face  glowed ;  her  idle  hands 
let  fall  the  muslin  on  the  polished  oaken  counter ;  but 
soon  the  mother's  voice  would  say,  in  tones  that  were 
always  sharp,  even  when  she  intended  them  to  be 
gentle,  "Augustine,  my  dear,  what  are  you  thinking 
about?" 

Perhaps  "  Hippolyte,  Earl  of  Douglas,"  and  the 
''  Comte  de  Comminges,"  two  novels  which  Augustine 


22  Fame  and  So.  row. 

had  found  in  the  closet  of  a  cook  dismissed  hy  Madame 
Guillaume,  may  have  contributed  to  develop  the  ideas 
of  the  young  girl,  who  had  stealthily  devoured  those 
productions  during  the  long  nights  of  the  preceding 
winter.  The  unconscious  expression  of  vague  desire, 
the  soft  voice,  the  jasmine  skin,  and  the  blue  eyes  of 
Augustine  Guillaume  had  lighted  a  flame  in  the  soul  of 
poor  Lebas  as  violent  as  it  was  humble.  'By  a  caprice 
that  is  easy  enough  to  understand,  Augustine  felt  no 
inclination  for  Joseph ;  perhaps  because  she  did  not 
know  he  loved  her.  On  the  other  hand,  the  long  legs 
and  chestnut  hair,  the  strong  hands  and  vigorous  frame 
of  the  head-clerk  excited  the  admiration  of  Mademoiselle 
Virginie,  who  had  not  yet  been  asked  in  marriage  in 
spite  of  a  dowr}^  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs. 
What  could  be  more  natural  than  these  inversed  loves, 
born  in  the  silence  of  that  shop  like  violets  in  the  depths 
of  the  woods?  The  mute  contemplation  which  constantly 
drew  the  eyes  of  these  young  people  together,  through 
their  violent  need  of  some  relief  from  the  monotonous 
toil  and  the  religious  calm  in  which  they  lived,  could  not 
fail  to  excite,  sooner  or  later,  the  emotions  of  love. 
The  habit  of  looking  into  the  face  of  another  leads  to 
an  understanding  of  the  noble  qualities  of  the  soul,  and 
ends  b}^  obliterating  all  defects. 

*'  At  the  rate  that  man  carries  things,"  thought  Mon- 
sieur Guillaume  when  he  read  Napoleon's  first  decree  on 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  23 

the  classes  for  conscription,  '*  our  daughters  will  have 
to  go  upon  their  knees  for  husbands." 

It  was  about  that  time  that  the  old  merchant,  noticing 
that  his  eldest  daughter  was  beginning  to  fade,  be- 
thought him  that  he  himself  had  married  Mademoiselle 
Chevrel  under  very  much  the  same  circumstances  as 
those  in  which  Virginie  and  Joseph  Lebas  stood  to  each 
other.  What  a  fine  thing  it  would  be  to  marry  his 
daughter  and  pa}^  a  sacred  debt  by  returning  to  the 
orphaned  young  man  the  same  benefaction  that  he  him- 
self had  received  from  his  predecessor  in  a  like  situa- 
tion? Joseph  Lebas,  who  was  thirty-three  j-ears  of 
age,  was  fully  conscious  of  the  obstacles  that  a  differ- 
ence of  fifteen  years  in  their  ages  placed  between  Au- 
gustine and  himself.  Too  shrewd  and  intelligent  not  to 
fathom  Monsieur  Guillaume's  intentions,  he  understood 
his  master's  inexorable  principles  far  too  well  to  sup- 
pose for  a  moment  that  the  younger  daughter  could  be 
married  before  the  elder.  The  poor  clerk,  whose  heart 
was  as  good  as  his  legs  were  long  and  his  shoulders 
high,  suffered  in  silence. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things  in  this  little  republic  of 
the  rue  Saint-Denis,  which  seemed  in  many  ways  like  an 
annex  to  La  Trappe.  But  to  explain  external  events 
as  we  have  now  explained  inward  feelings,  it  is  neces- 
sary to  look  back  a  few  months  before  the  little  scene 
which  began  this  history. 


24  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

One  evening  at  dusk  a  young  man,  happening  to  pass 
before  the  shop  of  the  Cat-playing-ball,  stopped  to  look 
at  a  scene  within  those  precincts  which  all  the  painters 
of  the  world  would  have  paused  to  contemplate.  The 
shop,  which  was  not  yet  lighted  up,  formed  a  dark  vista 
through  which  the  merchant's  dining-room  was  seen. 
An  astral  lamp  on  the  dinner-table  shed  that  yellow 
light  which  gives  such  charm  to  the  Dutch  pictures. 
The  white  table-linen,  the  silver,  the  glass,  were  bril- 
liant accessories,  still  further  thrown  into  relief  by  the 
sharp  contrasts  of  light  and  shadow.  The  figures  of 
the  father  of  the  family  and  his  wife,  the  faces  of  the 
clerks,  and  the  pure  lines  of  Augustine,  near  to  whom 
stood  a  stout,  chubby  servant-girl,  composed  so  remark- 
able a  picture,  the  heads  were  so  original,  the  expression 
of  each  character  was  so  frank,  it  was  so  easy  to  imagine 
the  peace,  the  silence,  the  modest  life  of  the  famil}*,  that 
to  an  artist  accustomed  to  express  nature  there  was 
something  absolutely  commanding  in  the  desire  to  paint 
this  accidental  scene. 

The  pedestrian,  thus  arrested,  was  a  3'oung  painter 
who,  seven  j'ears  earlier,  had  carried  off  the  prix  de 
Home.  He  had  lately  returned  from  the  Eternal  City. 
His  soul,  fed  on  poesy,  his  eyes  surfeited  with  Raffaelle 
and  Michael- Angelo,  were  now  athirst  for  simple  nature 
after  his  long  sojourn  in  the  mighty  land  where  art  has 
reached  its  highest  grandeur.     True  or  false,  such  was 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  25 

his  personal  feeling.  Carried  away  for  years  b}'  the  fire 
of  Italian  passions,  his  heart  now  sought  a  calm  and 
modest  virgin,  known  to  him  as  yet  only  upon  canvas. 
The  first  enthusiasm  of  his  soul  at  the  simple  picture 
before  his  eyes  passed  naturally  into  a  deep  admiration 
for  the  principal  figure.  Augustine  seemed  thoughtful, 
and  was  eating  nothing.  By  a  chance  arrangement  of 
the  lamp,  the  light  fell  full  upon  her  face,  and  her  bust 
appeared  to  move  in  a  circle  of  flame,  which  threw  into 
still  brighter  relief  the  outline  of  her  head,  illuminating 
it  in  a  waj^  that  seemed  half  supernatural.  The  artist 
compared  her  involuntarily  to  an  exiled  angel  remem- 
bering heaven.  A  mysterious  feeling,  almost  unknown 
to  him,  a  love  limpid  and  bubbling  overflowed  his 
heart.  After  standing  a  moment  as  if  paralyzed  be- 
neath the  weight  of  these  ideas,  he  tore  himself  away 
from  his  happiness  and  went  home,  unable  either  to 
eat  or  sleep. 

The  next  day  he  entered  his  studio,  and  did  not  leave 
it  again  until  he  had  placed  on  canvas  the  magic  charm 
of  a  scene  the  mere  recollection  of  which  had,  as  it  were, 
laid  a  spell  upon  him.  But  his  happiness  was  incom- 
plete so  long  as  he  did  not  possess  a  faithful  portrait  of 
his  idol.  Many  a  time  he  passed  before  the  house  of 
the  Cat-play ing-ball ;  he  even  entered  the  shop  once 
or  twice  on  some  pretext  to  get  a  nearer  view  of  the 
ravishing  creature  who  was  always  covered  by  Madame 


26  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

Guillaume's  wing.  For  eight  whole  months,  given  up 
to  his  love  and  to  his  brushes,  he  was  invisible  to  his 
friends,  even  to  his  intimates  ;  he  forgot  all,  —  poetry, 
the  theatre,  music,  and  his  most  cherished  habits. 

One  morning  Girodet  the  painter  forced  his  way  in, 
eluding  all  barriers  as  onl}^  artists  can,  and  woke  him 
up  with  the  inquiry,  "  What  are  you  going  to  send  to 
the  Salon?" 

The  artist  seized  his  friend's  arm,  led  him  to  the 
studio,  uncovered  a  little  easel  picture,  and  also  a  por- 
trait. After  a  slow  and  eager  examination  of  the  two 
masterpieces,  Girodet  threw  his  arms  around  his  friend 
and  kissed  him,  without  finding  words  to  speak.  His 
feelings  could  only  be  uttered  as  he  felt  them,  —  soul 
to  soul. 

"  You  love  her !  "  he  said  at  last. 

Both  knew  that  the  noblest  portraits  of  Titian,  Raf- 
faelle,  and  Leonardo  da  Vinci  are  due  to  exalted  human 
feelings,  which,  under  so  man^^  diverse  conditions,  have 
given  birth  to  the  masterpieces  of  art.  For  all  answer 
the  young  painter  bowed  his  head. 

"How  fortunate,  how  happy  you  are  to  be  able  to 
love  here,  in  Paris,  after  leaving  Italy.  I  can't  advise 
you  to  send  such  works  as  those  to  the  Salon,"  added 
the  distinguished  painter.  ''  You  see,  such  pictures 
cannot  be  felt  there.  Those  absolutely  true  colors, 
that   stupendous  labor,  will  not  be  understood;   the 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  27 

public  is  no  longer  able  to  see  into  such  depths.  The 
pictures  we  paint  now-a-days,  dear  friend,  are  mere 
screens  for  decoration.  Better  make  verses,  saj'-  I, 
and  translate  the  ancients,  —  we  shall  get  a  truer  fame 
that  way  than  our  miserable  pictures  will  ever  bring 
us." 

But  in  spite  of  this  friendly  advice  the  two  pictures 
were  exhibited.  That  of  the  interior  made  almost  a 
revolution  in  art.  It  gave  birth  to  the  fashion  of  genre 
pictures  which  since  that  time  have  so  filled  our  exhi- 
bitions that  one  might  almost  believe  they  were  produced 
by  some  mechanical  process.  As  to  the  portrait,  there 
are  few  living  artists  who  do  not  cherish  the  memory  of 
that  breathing  canvas  on  which  the  general  public,  occa- 
sionally just  in  its  judgment,  left  the  crown  of  praise 
which  Girodet  himself  placed  there. 

The  two  pictures  were  surrounded  by  crowds.  People 
killed  themselves,  as  women  sa}',  to  look  at  them.  Spec- 
ulators and  great  lords  would  have  covered  both  can- 
vases with  double- napoleons,  but  the  artist  obstinately 
refused  to  sell  them,  declining  also  to  make  copies. 
He  was  offered  an  immense  sum  if  he  would  allow  them 
to  be  engraved  ;  but  the  dealers  were  no  more  success- 
ful than  the  amateurs.  Though  this  affair  engrossed 
the  social  world,  it  was  not  of  a  nature  to  penetrate  the 
depths  of  Egyptian  solitude  in  the  rue  Saint-Denis.  It 
so  chanced,  however,  that  the  wife  of  a  notary,  paying 


28  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

a  visit  to  Madame  Guillauine,  spoke  of  the  exhibition 
before  Augustine,  of  whom  she  was  very  fond,  and 
explained  what  it  was.  Madame  Roguin's  chatter  nat- 
urally inspired  Augustine  with  a  desire  to  see  the  pict- 
ures, and  with  the  boldness  to  secretlj^  ask  her  cousin 
to  take  her  to  the  Louvre.  Madame  Roguin  succeeded 
in  the  negotiation  she  undertook  with  Madame  Guil- 
laume,  and  was  allowed  to  take  her  little  cousin  from 
her  daily  tasks  for  the  short  space  of  two  hours. 

Thus  it  was  that  the  young  girl,  passing  through  the 
crowd,  stood  before  the  famous  picture.  A  quiver 
made  her  tremble  like  a  birch-leaf  when  she  recognized 
her  own  self.  She  was  frightened,  and  looked  about 
to  rejoin  Madame  Roguin,  from  whom  the  crowd  had 
parted  her.  At  that  instant  her  eyes  encountered 
the  flushed  face  of  the  j^oung  painter.  She  suddenly 
remembered  a  man  who  had  frequently  passed  the  shop 
and  whom  she  had  often  remarked,  thinking  he  was 
some  new  neighbor. 

**  You  see  there  the  inspiration  of  love,"  said  the  ar- 
tist in  a  whisper  to  the  timid  creature,  who  was  terrified 
by  his  words. 

She  summoned  an  almost  supernatural  courage  to 
force  her  way  through  the  crowd  and  rejoin  her 
cousin. 

''  You  will  be  suffocated,"  cried  Augustine.  *'  Do  let 
us  go ! " 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  29 

But  there  are  certain  moments  at  the  Salon  when 
two  women  are  not  able  to  move  freel}-  through  the 
galleries.  Mademoiselle  Guillaume  and  her  cousin  were 
blocked  and  pushed  by  the  swaying  crowd  to  within 
a  few  feet  of  the  second  picture.  The  exclamation  of 
surprise  uttered  by  Madame  Roguin  was  lost  in  the 
noises  of  the  room ;  but  Augustine  involuntarily  wept 
as  she  looked  at  the  marvellous  scene.  Then,  with  a 
feeling  that  is  almost  inexplicable,  she  put  her  finger  on 
her  lips  as  she  saw  the  ecstatic  face  of  the  young  artist 
within  two  feet  of  her.  He  replied  with  a  motion  of 
his  head  toward  Madame  Roguin,  as  if  to  show  Augus- 
tine that  he  understood  her.  This  pantomime  threw  a 
fire  of  burning  coals  into  the  being  of  the  poor  girl, 
who  felt  she  was  criminal  in  thus  allowing  a  secret  com, 
pact  between  herself  and  the  unknown  artist.  The  stif- 
ling heat,  the  sight  of  the  brilliant  dresses,  a  giddiness 
which  the  wonderful  combinations  of  color  produced  in 
her,  the  multitude  of  figures,  living  and  painted,  which 
surrounded  her,  the  profusion  of  gold  frames,  —  all 
gave  her  a  sense  of  intoxication  which  redoubled  her 
terrors.  She  might  have  fainted  if  there  had  not  welled 
up  from  the  depths  of  her  heart,  in  spite  of  this  chaos 
of  sensations,  a  mj'sterious  joy  which  vivified  her 
whole  being.  Still,  she  fancied  she  was  under  the  do- 
minion of  that  demon  whose  dreadful  snares  were  threats 
held  out  to  her  by  the  thundered  words  of  the  preach* 


30  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

ers.  The  moment  seemed  like  one  of  actual  madness 
to  her.  She  saw  she  was  accompanied  to  her  cousin's 
carriage  by  the  mysterious  young  man,  resplendent 
with  love  and  happiness.  A  new  and  unknown  excite- 
ment possessed  her,  an  intoxication  which  delivered 
her,  as  it  were,  into  the  hands  of  Nature  ;  she  listened 
to  the  eloquent  voice  of  her  own  heart,  and  looked  at 
the  young  painter  several  times,  betraying  as  she  did 
so  the  agitation  of  her  thoughts.  Never  had  the  carna- 
tion of  her  cheeks  formed  a  more  charming  contrast  to 
the  whiteness  of  her  skin.  The  artist  then  beheld  that 
beauty  in  its  perfect  flower,  that  virgin  modesty  in  all 
its  gfory. 

Augustine  became  conscious  of  a  sort  of  joy  mingling 
with  her  terror  as  she  thought  how  her  presence  had 
brought  happiness  to  one  whose  name  was  on  every  lip 
and  whose  talent  had  given  immortality  to  a  passing 
scene.  Yes,  she  was  beloved  !  she  could  not  doubt  it ! 
When  she  ceased  to  see  him,  his  words  still  sounded  in 
her  ear :  "  You  see  the  inspiration  of  love  !  "  The  pal- 
pitations of  her  heart  were  painful,  so  violently  did  the 
now  ardent  blood  awaken  unknown  forces  in  her  being. 
She  complained  of  a  severe  headache  to  avoid  replying 
to  her  cousin's  questions  about  the  pictures  ;  but  when 
they  reached  home,  Madame  Roguin  could  not  refrain 
from  telling  Madame  Guillaume  of  the  celebrity  given  to 
the  establishment  of  the  Cat-playing-ball,  and  Angus- 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  31 

tine  trembled  in  every  limb  as  she  heard  her  mother 
say  she  should  go  to  the  Salon  and  see  her  own  house. 
Again  the  young  girl  complained  of  her  headache,  and 
received  permission  to  go  to  bed. 

*' That's  what  you  get  by  going  to  shows!"  ex- 
claimed Monsieur  Guillaume.  ''Headaches!  Is  it  so 
very  amusing  to  see  a  picture  of  what  you  see  every 
day  in  the  street?  Don't  talk  to  me  of  artists  ;  they  are 
like  authors,  — half-starved  beggars.  Why  the  devil 
should  that  fellow  choose  my  house  to  villify  in  his 
picture  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  it  will  help  to  sell  some  of  our  cloth,"  said 
Joseph  Lebas. 

That  remark  did  not  save  art  and  literature  from 
being  once  more  arraigned  and  condemned  before  the 
tribunal  of  commerce.  It  will  be  readily  believed  that 
such  discourse  brought  little  encouragement  to  Augus- 
tine, who  gave  herself  up  in  the  night-time  to  the  first 
revery  of  love.  The  events  of  the  day  were  like  those 
of  a  dream  which  she  delighted  to  reproduce  in  thought. 
She  learned  the  fears,  the  hopes,  the  remorse,  all  those 
undulations  of  feeling  which  rock  a  heart  as  simple  and 
timid  as  hers.  What  a  void  she  felt  within  that  gloomy 
house,  what  a  treasure  she  found  within  her  soul !  To 
be  the  wife  of  a  man  of  talent,  to  share  his  fame ! 
Imagine  the  havoc  such  a  thought  would  make  in  the 
heart  of  a  child  brought  up  in  the  bosom  of  such  a  fara- 


82  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

ily !  What  hopes  would  it  not  awaken  in  a  girl  who 
lived  among  the  vulgarities  of  life,  and  3'et  longed  for 
its  elegancies.  A  beam  of  light  had  come  into  her 
prison.  Augustine  loved,  loved  suddenl3\  So  many 
repressed  feelings  were  gratified  that  she  succumbed  at 
once,  without  an  instant's  reflection.  At  eighteen  love 
flings  its  prism  between  the  world  and  the  eyes  of  a 
maiden.  Incapable  of  imagining  the  harsh  experience 
which  comes  to  every  loving  woman  married  to  a  man 
gifted  with  imagination,  she  fancied  herself  called  to 
make  the  happiness  of  such  a  man,  seeing  no  disparity 
between  them.  For  her  the  present  was  the  whole 
future. 

When  Monsieur  and  Madame  Guillaume  returned  the 
next  day  from  the  Salon,  their  faces  announced  disap- 
pointment and  annoyance.  In  the  first  place,  the  artist 
had  withdrawn  the  picture  ;  in  the  next,  Madame  Guil- 
laume had  lost  her  cashmere  shawl.  The  news  that  the 
pictures  had  been  withdrawn  after  her  visit  to  the  Salon 
was  to  Augustine  the  revelation  of  a  delicacy  of  senti- 
ment which  all  women  appreciate,  if  onty  instinctivelj'. 

The  morning  on  which,  returning  from  a  ball,  Theo- 
dore de  Sommervieux  (such  was  the  name  which  cele- 
brity- had  now  placed  in  Augustine's  heart),  was 
showered  with  soap}^  water  by  the  clerks  of  the  Cat- 
playing-ball,  as  he  awaited  the  apparition  of  his  in- 
nocent beauty,  —  who  certainly  did  not  know  he  was 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  33 

tbere,  —  was  only  the  fourth  occasion  of  their  seeing 
each  other  since  that  first  meeting  at  the  Salon.  The 
obstacles  which  the  iron  system  of  the  house  of  Guil- 
laume  placed  in  the  way  of  the  ardent  and  impetuous 
nature  of  the  artist,  added  a  violence  to  his  passion  for 
Augustine,  which  will  be  readily  understood.  How  ap- 
proach a  young  girl  seated  behind  a  counter  between 
two  such  women  as  Mademoiselle  Virginia  and  Madame 
Guillaume?  How  was  it  possible  to  correspond  with 
her  if  her  mother  never  left  her?  Ready,  like  all 
lovers,  to  invent  troubles  for  himself,  Theodore  se- 
lected a  rival  among  the  clerks,  and  suspected  the 
others  of  being  in  their  comrade's  interests.  If  he 
escaped  their  Argus  eyes  he  felt  he  should  succumb  to 
the  stern  glances  of  the  old  merchant  or  Madame  Guil- 
laume. Obstacles  on  all  sides,  despair  on  all  sides ! 
The  very  violence  of  his  passion  prevented  the  young 
man  from  inventing  those  clever  expedients  which,  in 
lovers  as  well  as  in  prisoners,  seem  to  be  crowning 
efforts  of  intellect  roused  either  by  a  savage  desire  for 
liberty  or  by  the  ardor  of  love.  Then  Theodore  would 
rush  round  the  corner  like  a  madman,  as  if  movement 
alone  could  suggest  a  wa}^  out  of  the  difficult3\ 

After  allowing  his  imagination  to  torment  him  for 
weeks,  it  came  into  his  head  to  bribe  the  chubby 
servant-girl.  A  few  letters  were  thus  exchanged  during 
the  fortnight  which  followed  the  unlucky  morning  when 


34  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

Monsieur  Guillaume  and  Theodore  had  first  met.  The 
loving  pair  had  now  agreed  to  see  each  other  daily  at  a 
certain  hour,  and  on  Sunday  at  the  church  of  Saint- 
Leu,  during  both  mass  and  vespers.  Augustine  had 
sent  her  dear  Theodore  a  list  of  the  friends  and  rela- 
tives of  the  family  to  whom  the  young  painter  was 
to  gain  access.  He  was  then  to  endeavor  to  inter- 
est in  his  loving  cause  some  one  of  those  mone}"- 
making  and  commercial  souls  to  whom  a  real  passion 
would  otherwise  seem  a  monstrous  and  unheard-of 
speculation. 

In  other  respects  nothing  happened  and  no  change 
took  place  in  the  habits  of  the  Cat-playing-ball.  If 
Augustine  was  absent-minded ;  if,  against  every  law 
of  the  domestic  charter,  she  went  up  to  her  bedroom 
to  make  the  signals  under  cover  of  the  flower-pots ; 
if  she  sighed,  if  she  brooded,  —  no  one,  not  even  her 
mother,  found  it  out.  This  may  cause  some  surprise 
to  those  who  have  understood  the  spirit  of  the  house- 
hold, where  a  single  idea  tinged  with  poetry  would  have 
contrasted  sharply  with  the  beings  and  with  the  things 
therein  contained,  and  where  no  one  was  able  to  give  a 
look  or  gesture  that  was  not  seen  and  analj'zed.  And 
yet,  as  it  happened,  nothing  was  really  more  natural. 
The  tranquil  vessel  which  navigated  the  seas  of  Parisian 
commerce  under  the  flag  of  the  Cat-playing-ball,  was  at 
this  particular  moment  tossed  about  in  one  of  those 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  85 

storms  which  may  be  called  equinoctial,  on  account  of 
their  periodical  return. 

For  the  last  fifteen  daj's  the  five  men  of  the  establish- 
ment, with  Madame  Guillaume  and  Mademoiselle  Vir- 
ginie,  had  devoted  themselves  to  that  severe  toil  which 
goes  by  the  name  of  "  taking  an  inventory."  All  bales 
were  undone,  and  the  length  of  each  piece  of  goods  was 
measured,  to  learn  the  exact  value  of  what  remained  on 
hand.  The  card  attached  to  each  piece  was  carefully 
examined  to  know  how  long  the  different  goods  had 
been  in  stock.  New  prices  were  aflSxed.  Monsieur 
Guillaume,  always  standing  up,  yard-measure  in  hand, 
his  pen  behind  his  ear,  was  like  a  captain  in  command 
of  a  ship.  His  sharp  voice,  passing  down  a  hatchway 
to  the  ware-rooms  below,  rang  out  that  barbarous 
jargon  of  commerce  expressed  in  enigmas:  "How 
many  H-N-Z  ?  "  "  Take  it  away  !  "  "  How  much  left 
of  Q-X?  "  "  Two  yards."  "  What  price  ?  "  "  Five- 
five-three."  "  Put  at  three  A  all  J-J,  all  M-P,  and  the 
rest  of  V-D-0."  A  thousand  other  such  phrases,  all 
equally  intelligible,  resounded  across  the  counters,  like 
those  verses  of  modern  poetry  which  the  romanticists 
recite  to  each  other  to  keep  up  their  enthusiasm  for  a 
favorite  poet.  At  night  Monsieur  Guillaume  locked 
himself  and  his  head-clerk  and  his  wife  into  the  count- 
ing-room, went  over  the  books,  opened  the  new  accounts, 
notified  the  dilatory  debtors,  and   made  out  all   bills. 


36  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

The  results  of  this  immense  toil,  which  could  be  noted 
down  on  one  sheet  of  foolscap  paper,  proved  to  the 
house  of  Guillaume  that  it  owned  so  much  in  monej^  so 
much  in  merchandise,  so  much  in  notes  and  cheques ; 
also  that  it  did  not  owe  a  sou,  but  that  so  many  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  were  owing  to  it ;  that  its  capital 
had  increased ;  that  its  farms,  houses,  and  stocks  were 
to  be  enlarged,  repaired,  or  doubled.  Hence  came  a 
sense  of  the  necessity  of  beginning  once  more  with 
renewed  ardor  the  accumulation  of  more  money ; 
though  none  of  these  brave  ants  ever  thought  of  ask- 
ing themselves,  *' What's  the  good  of  it?" 

Thanks  to  this  annual  tumult,  the  happ}'  Augustine 
was  able  to  escape  the  observation  of  her  Arguses.  At 
last,  one  Saturday  evening,  the  ''  taking  of  the  inven- 
tory" was  an  accomplished  fact.  The  figures  of  the 
total  assets  showed  so  man}'  ciphers  that  in  honor  of 
the  occasion  Monsieur  Guillaume  removed  the  stern 
embargo  which  reigned  throughout  the  3'ear  at  des- 
sert. The  sly  old  draper  rubbed  his  hands  and  told  the 
clerks  they  might  remain  at  table.  They  had  hardly 
swallowed  their  little  glass  of  a  certain  home-made 
liqueur,  however,  when  carriage-wheels  were  heard  in 
the  street.  The  family  were  going  to  the  Varietes  to 
see  "  Cinderella,"  while  the  two  3'ounger  clerks  each 
received  six  francs  and  permission  to  go  where  they 
liked,  provided  they  were  at  home  by  midnight. 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  37 

The  next  morning,  in  spite  of  this  debauch,  the  old 
merchant-draper  shaved  at  six  o'clock,  put  on  his  fine 
maroon  coat,  —  the  lustre  of  its  cloth  causing  him,  as 
usual,  much  satisfaction,  —  fastened  his  gold  buckles  to 
the  knee-band  of  his  ample  silk  breeches,  and  then, 
toward  seven  o'clock,  while  ever}'  one  in  the  house  was 
still  asleep,  he  went  to  the  little  office  adjoining  the 
shop  on  the  first  floor.  It  was  lighted  by  a  window 
protected  by  thick  iron  bars,  and  looked  out  upon  a  lit- 
tle square  court  formed  by  walls  so  black  that  the  place 
was  like  a  well.  The  old  merchant  opened  an  inner 
blind  that  was  clamped  with  iron,  and  raised  a  sash  of 
the  window.  The  chill  air  of  the  court  cooled  the  hot 
atmosphere  of  the  office,  which  exhaled  an  odor  peculiar 
to  all  such  places.  Monsieur  Guillaume  remained  stand- 
ing, one  hand  resting  on  the  greasy  arm  of  a  cane-chair 
covered  with  morocco,  the  primitive  color  of  which  was 
now  eff'aced ;  he  seemed  to  hesitate  to  sit  down.  The  old 
man  glanced  with  a  softened  air  at  the  tall  double  desk, 
where  his  wife's  seat  was  arranged  exactly  opposite  to 
his  own,  in  a  little  arched  alcove  made  in  the  wall. 
He  looked  at  the  numbered  paper-boxes,  the  twine,  the 
various  utensils,  the  irons  with  which  they  marked  the 
cloth,  the  safe,  —  all  objects  of  immemorial  origin,  — 
and  he  fancied  himself  standing  before  the  evoked  shade 
'jf  the  late  Chevrel.  He  pulled  out  the  very  stool  on 
tvhich  he  formerly  sat  in  presence  of  his  now  defunct 


38  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

master.  That  stool,  covered  with  black  leather,  from 
which  the  horsehair  had  long  oozed  at  the  corners  (but 
without  falling  out),  he  now  placed  with  a  trembling 
hand  on  the  particular  spot  where  his  predecessor  had 
once  placed  it ;  then,  with  an  agitation  difficult  to  de- 
scribe, he  pulled  a  bell  which  rang  at  the  bed's  head  of 
Joseph  Lebas.  When  that  decisive  deed  was  done,  the 
old  man,  to  whom  these  memories  may  have  been  op- 
pressive, took  out  three  or  four  bills  of  exchange  which 
had  been  presented  to  him  the  daj-  before,  and  was 
looking  them  over,  but  without  seeing  them,  when 
Joseph  Lebas  entered  the  office. 

"  Sit  there,"  said  Monsieur  Guillaume,  pointing  to 
the  stool. 

As  the  old  master-draper  had  never  before  allowed  a 
clerk  to  sit  in  his  presence,  Joseph  trembled. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  these  drafts?  "  asked  Guil- 
laume. 

"  They  will  not  be  paid."    . 

*' Why  not?" 

"  I  heard  yesterday  that  Etienne  and  Company  were 
making  their  payments  in  gold." 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  "  cried  the  draper.  "  They  must  be  very 
ill  to  show  their  bile.  Let  us  talk  of  something  else, 
Joseph  ;  the  inventory  is  finished  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  monsieur,  and  the  dividend  is  the  finest  you 
have  ever  had." 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  39 

"Fray  don't  use  those  new-fangled  words.  Say 
'proceeds,'  Joseph.  Do  you  know,  my  boy,  that  we 
owe  that  result  partly  to  you?  Therefore,  I  do  not 
wish  you  to  have  a  salary  any  longer.  Madame  Guil- 
laume  has  put  it  into  my  head  to  offer  you  a  share  in 
the  business.  Hey,  Joseph,  what  do  you  say?  *Guil- 
laume  and  Lebas,* —  don't  the  names  make  a  fine  part- 
nership ?  and  we  can  add  *  and  Company '  to  complete 
the  signature." 

Tears  came  into  Joseph's  eyes,  though  he  tried  to 
hide  them.  *'  Ah,  Monsieur  Guillaume,"  he  said,  "  how 
have  I  deserved  such  goodness  ?  I  have  only  done  my 
duty.  It  was  enough  that  you  should  even  take  an 
interest  in  a  poor  orph  —  " 

He  brushed  the  cuff  of  his  left  sleeve  with  his  right 
sleeve,  and  dared  not  look  at  the  old  man,  who  smiled 
as  he  thought  that  this  modest  young  fellow  no  doubt 
needed,  as  he  himself  once  needed,  to  be  helped  and 
encouraged  to  make  the  explanation  complete. 

"  It  is  true,  Joseph,"  said  Virginie's  father,  '*  that 
you  do  not  quite  deserve  that  favor.  You  do  not  put 
as  much  confidence  in  me  as  I  do  in  you"  (here  the 
clerk  looked  up  hurriedly).  ^'You  know  my  secrets. 
For  the  last  two  years  I  have  told  you  all  about  the 
business.  I  have  sent  you  travelling  to  the  manufac- 
tories. I  have  nothing  to  reproach  myself  with  as  to 
you.    But  you !    You  have  a  liking  in  your  mind,  and 


40  Fame  and  jSorrow. 

you  have  never  said  a  word  to  me  about  it"  (Joseph 
colored).  "  Ha !  ha ! "  cried  Guillaume,  "  so  you  thought 
you  could  deceive  an  old  fox  like  me  ?  Me  !  when  you 
knew  how  I  predicted  the  Lecocq  failure  !  " 

*' Oh,  monsieur !"  replied  Joseph  Lebas,  examining 
his  master  as  attentively  as  his  master  examined  him, 
'*  is  it  possible  that  3^ou  know  whom  I  love?  " 

'*  I  know  all,  you  good-for-nothing  fellow,"  said  the 
worthy  and  astute  old  dealer,  twisting  the  lobe  of  the 
3'oung  man's  ear ;  "  and  I  forgive  it,  for  I  did  as  much 
myself." 

"  Will  you  give  her  to  me?  " 

*'  Yes,  with  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs,  and 
I  will  leave  you  as  much  more ;  and  we  will  meet  our 
new  expenses  under  the  new  firm  name.  Yes,  boy,  we 
will  stir  up  the  business  finelj^  and  put  new  life  into  it," 
cried  the  old  merchant,  rising  and  gesticulating  with 
his  arms.  "  There  is  nothing  like  business,  son-in-law. 
Those  who  sneer  and  ask  what  pleasures  can  be  found 
in  it  are  simply  fools.  To  have  the  cue  of  mone}' -mat- 
ters, to  know  how  to  govern  the  market,  to  wait  with 
the  anxiety  of  gamblers  till  ifetienne  and  Company  fail, 
to  see  a  regiment  of  Guards  go  by  with  our  cloth  on 
their  backs,  to  trip  up  a  neighbor,  —  honestlj^,  of 
course,  —  to  manufacture  at  a  lower  price  than  oth- 
ers, to  follow  up  an  aflair  when  we  've  planned  it,  to 
watch  it  begin,  increase,  totter,  and  succeed,  to  under- 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  41 

stand,  like  the  minister  of  police,  all  the  ways  and 
means  of  all  the  commercial  houses  so  as  to  make  no 
false  step,  to  stand  up  straight  when  others  are  wrecked 
and  ruined,  to  have  friends  and  correspondents  in  all  the 
manufacturing  towns  and  cities  —  Ha,  Joseph  !  is  n't 
that  perpetual  pleasure  ?  I  call  that  living !  Yes,  and 
I  shall  die  in  that  bustle  like  old  Chevrel  himself." 

In  the  heat  of  his  allocution  Pere  Guillaume  scarcely 
looked  at  his  clerk,  who  was  weeping  hot  tears ;  when 
he  did  so  he  exclaimed,  "  Hej-,  Joseph,  my  poor  boy, 
what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Ah !  I  love  her  so.  Monsieur  Guillaume,  that  my 
heart  fails  me,  I  believe." 

"Well,  my  boy,"  said  the  old  man,  quite  moved, 
"you  are  happier  than  3'ou  think  you  are ;  for,  by  the 
powers,  she  loves  you.     1  know  it ;  yes,  I  do ! " 

And  he  winked  his  two  little  green  eyes  as  he  looked 
at  Joseph. 

"  Mademoiselle  Augustine !  Mademoiselle  Augus- 
tine ! "  cried  Joseph  Lebas  in  his  excitement.  He  was 
about  to  rush  out  of  the  office  when  he  felt  himself 
grasped  by  an  iron  arm,  and  his  astonished  master 
pulled  him  vigorously  in  front  of  him. 

"What  has  Augustine  got  to  do  with  it?"  asked 
Guillaume,  in  a  voice  that  froze  the  unfortunate  young 
man. 

"  It  is  she  —  whom  —  I  love,"  stammered  the  clerk. 


42  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

Disconcerted  at  his  own  lack  of  perspicacity,  Guil- 
laume  sat  down  and  put  his  pointed  head  into  his  two 
hands  to  reflect  upon  the  queer  position  in  which  he 
found  himself.  Joseph  Lebas,  ashamed,  mortified,  and 
despairing,  stood  before  him. 

"Joseph,"  said  the  merchant,  with  cold  dignity,  "I 
was  speaking  to  you  of  Virginie.  Love  is  not  to  be 
commanded ;  I  know  that.  I  trust  your  discretion ; 
we  will  forget  the  whole  matter.  I  shall  never  allow 
Augustine  to  be  married  before  Virginie.  Your  interest 
in  the  business  will  be  ten  per  cent." 

The  head-clerk,  in  whom  love  inspired  a  mysterious 
degree  of  courage  and  eloquence,  clasped  his  hands, 
opened  his  lips,  and  spoke  to  Guillaume  for  fifteen  min- 
utes with  such  ardor  and  deep  feeling  that  the  situation 
changed.  If  the  matter  had  concerned  some  business 
affair  the  old  man  would  have  had  a  fixed  rule  by 
which  to  settle  it ;  but  suddenly  cast  upon  the  sea  of 
feelings,  a  thousand  miles  from  business  and  without  a 
compass,  he  floated  irresolutely  before  the  wind  of  an 
event  so  "out  of  the  way,"  as  he  kept  sajing  to  him- 
self. Influenced  by  his  natural  paternal  kindness,  he 
was  at  the  mercy  of  the  waves. 

"Hey,  the  deuce,  Joseph,  you  know  of  course  that 
my  two  children  came  with  ten  years  between  them. 
Mademoiselle  Chevrel  was  not  handsome,  no ;  but  I 
never  gave  her  any  reason  to  complain  of  me.     Do  as 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  43 

I  did.  Come,  don't  fret,  —  what  a  goose  3'ou  are! 
Perhaps  we  can  manage  it;  I'll  try.  There's  alwaj's 
some  way  to  do  a  thing.  We  men  are  not  exactly 
Celadons  to  our  wives, — you  understand,  don't  you? 
Madame  Guillaume  is  pious,  and —  There,  there,  my 
boy,  you  may  give  Augustine  your  arm  this  morning 
when  we  go  to  mass." 

Such  were  the  sentences  which  Pere  Guillaume  scat- 
tered at  random.  The  last  of  them  filled  the  lover's 
soul  with  J03'.  He  was  alreadj^  thinking  of  a  friend 
who  would  do  for  Mademoiselle  Virginie  as  he  left  the 
smoky  office,  after  pressing  the  hand  of  his  future 
father-in-law  and  saying,  in  a  confidential  wa}^,  that  it 
would  all  come  right. 

**What  will  Madame  Guillaume  say?"  That  idea 
was  terribly  harrassing  to  the  worth}'  merchant  when 
he  found  himself  alone. 

At  breakfast,  Madame  Guillaume  and  Virginie,  whom 
the  draper  had  left,  provisionally,  in  ignorance  of  her 
disappointment,  looked  at  Joseph  with  so  much  mean- 
ing that  he  became  greatlj'  embarrassed.  His  modesty 
won  him  the  good-will  of  his  future  mother-in-law. 
The  matron  grew  so  lively  that  she  looked  at  Monsieur 
Guillaume  with  a  smile,  and  allowed  herself  a  few  little 
harmless  pleasantries  customary  from  time  immemorial 
in  such  innocent  families.  She  discussed  the  relative 
heights  of  Joseph  and  Virginie,  and  placed  them  side 


44  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

by  side  to  be  measured.  These  little  follies  brought  a 
cloud  to  the  paternal  brow ;  in  fact,  the  head  of  the 
family  manifested  such  a  sense  of  decorum  that  he 
ordered  Augustine  to  take  the  arm  of  his  head-clerk  on 
their  way  to  church.  Madame  Guillaume,  surprised  at 
so  much  masculine  delicac}'',  honored  her  husband's  act 
with  an  approving  nod.  The  procession  left  the  house 
in  an  order  that  suggested  no  gossipping  constructions 
to  the  neighbors. 

*'Do  you  not  think,  Mademoiselle  Augustine,"  said 
the  head-clerk  in  a  trembling  voice,  "  that  the  wife  of  a 
merchant  in  high  standing,  like  Monsieur  Guillaume 
for  example,  ought  to  amuse  herself  rather  more  than 
—  than  your  mother  amuses  herself  ?  She  ought  surely 
to  wear  diamonds,  and  have  a  carriage.  As  for  me,  if 
I  should  ever  marry  I  should  want  to  take  all  the  cares 
myself,  and  see  my  wife  happy ;  I  should  not  let  her  sit 
at  any  counter  of  mine.  You  see,  women  are  no  longer 
as  much  needed  as  they  used  to  be  in  draper's  shops. 
Monsieur  Guillaume  was  quite  right  to  do  as  he  did,  and 
besides,  Madame  likes  it.  But  if  a  wife  knows  how  to 
help  in  making  up  the  accounts  at  times,  and  looking 
over  the  correspondence ;  if  she  can  have  an  eye  to  a 
few  details  and  to  the  orders,  and  manage  her  household, 
so  as  not  to  be  idle,  that 's  enough.  As  for  me,  I  should 
alwa^'s  wish  to  amuse  her  after  seven  o'clock,  when  the 
shop  is  closed.     I  should  take  her  to  the  theatre  and 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  45 

the  picture  galleries,  and  into  society,  —  but  you  are  not 
listening  to  me." 

*'  Oh,  yes  I  am,  Monsieur  Joseph.  What  were  you 
saying  about  painters?    It  is  a  noble  art." 

**  Yes,  I  know  one,  a  master  painter,  Monsieur  Lour- 
dois  ;  he  makes  money." 

Thus  conversing,  the  family  reached  Saint-Leu; 
there,  Madame  Guillaume  recovered  her  rights.  She 
made  Augustine,  for  the  first  time,  sit  beside  her ;  and 
Virginie  took  the  fourth  chair,  next  to  that  of  Lebas. 
During  the  sermon  all  went  well  with  Augustine  and  with 
Theodore,  who  stood  behind  a  column  and  prayed  to 
his  madonna  with  great  fervor ;  but  when  the  Host  was 
raised,  Madame  Guillaume  perceived,  somewhat  tardily, 
that  her  daughter  Augustine  was  holding  her  prayer- 
book  upside  down.  She  was  about  to  scold  her  vigor- 
ously when,  suddenly  raising  her  veil,  she  postponed 
her  lecture  and  looked  in  the  direction  which  her  daugh- 
ter's eyes  had  taken.  With  the  help  of  her  spectacles, 
she  then  and  there  beheld  the  young  artist,  whose 
fashionable  clothes  bespoke  an  officer  of  the  arm}^  on 
furlough  rather  than  a  merchant  belonging  to  the  neigh- 
borhood. It  is  difficult  to  imagine  the  wrath  of  Madame 
Guillaume,  who  flattered  herself  she  had  brought  up  her 
daughters  in  perfect  propriety,  on  detecting  this  clan- 
destine love  in  Augustine's  heart,  the  evils  of  which 
she  magnified  out    of   ignorance  and    prudery.     She 


46  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

concluded  instantly  that  her  daughter  was  rotten  to 
the  core. 

"In  the  first  place,  hold  3'our  book  straight,  made- 
moiselle," she  said  in  a  low  voice,  but  trembling  with 
anger ;  then  she  snatched  the  tell-tale  prayer-book,  and 
turned  it  the  right  way.  "Don't  dare  to  raise  3'our 
eyes  oflE"  those  prayers,"  she  added  ;  "  otherwise  you  will 
answer  for  it  to  me.  After  service,  your  father  and  I 
will  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

These  words  were  like  a  thunderbolt  to  poor  Augus- 
tine. She  felt  like  fainting ;  but  between  the  misery 
she  endured  and  the  fear  of  creating  a  disturbance  in 
church,  she  gathered  enough  courage  to  hide  her  suffer- 
ing. Yet  it  was  easy  enough  to  guess  the  commotion 
of  her  mind  by  the  way  the  book  shook  in  her  hands 
and  by  the  tears  which  fell  on  the  pages  as  she  turned 
them.  The  artist  saw,  from  the  incensed  look  which 
Madame  Guillaume  flung  at  him,  the  perils  which  threat- 
ened his  love,  and  he  left  the  church  with  rage  in  his 
heart,  determined  to  dare  all. 

"  Go  to  3"0ur  room,  mademoiselle ! "  said  Madame 
Guillaume  when  they  reached  home.  "  Don  't  dare  to 
leave  it ;  3'ou  will  be  called  when  we  want  3'ou." 

The  conference  of  husband  and  wife  was  held  in 
secret,  and  at  first  nothing  transpired.  But  after  a 
while  Virginie,  who  had  comforted  her  sister  with 
many  tender  suggestions,  carried  her  kindness  so  far 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  47 

as  to  slip  down  to  the  door  of  her  mother's  bedroom, 
where  the  discussion  was  taking  place,  hoping  to  over- 
hear a  few  sentences.  At  her  first  trip  from  the  third 
to  the  second  floor  she  heard  hei  father  exclaim, 
"Madame,  do  you  wish  to  kill  your  daughter?" 

'*  My  poor  dear,"  said  Virginie,  running  back  to  her 
disconsolate  sister,  *'  papa  is  defending  you  !  " 

*'  What  will  they  do  to  Theodore  ?  "  asked  the  inno- 
cent little  thing. 

Virginie  went  down  again  ;  but  this  time  she  stayed 
longer ;  she  heard  that  Lebas  loved  Augustine. 

It  was  decreed  that  on  this  memorable  day  that 
usually  calm  house  should  become  a  hell.  Monsieur 
Guillaume  brought  Joseph  Lebas  to  the  verge  of  de- 
spair by  informing  him  of  Augustine's  attachment  to 
the  artist.  Lebas,  who  by  that  time  had  met  his  friend 
and  advised  him  to  ask  for  Mademoiselle  Virginie  in 
marriage,  saw  all  his  hopes  overthrown.  Virginie, 
overcome  by  the  discovery  that  Joseph  had,  as  it 
were,  refused  her,  was  taken  with  a  violent  headache. 
And  finally,  the  jar  between  husband  and  wife,  result- 
ing from  the  explanation  they  had  together,  when  for 
the  third  time  only  in  their  lives  \hey  held  different 
opinions,  made  itself  felt  in  a  really  dreadful  manner. 
At  last,  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Augus- 
tine, pale,  trembling,  and  with  red  eyes,  was  brought 
before  her  father  and  mother.     The  poor  child  related 


48  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

artlessly  the  too  brief  story  of  her  love.  Reassured  by 
her  father,  who  promised  to  hear  her  through  in  silence, 
she  gathered  enough  courage  to  utter  the  name  of  her 
dear  Theodore  de  Sommervieux,  dwelling  with  some 
diplomacy  on  the  aristocratic  particle.  As  she  yielded 
to  the  hitherto  unknown  delight  of  speaking  out  her 
feelings,  she  found  courage  to  say  with  innocent  bold- 
ness that  she  loved  Monsieur  de  Sommervieux  and  had 
written  to  him,  adding,  with  tears  in  her  eyes:  "It 
would  make  me  unhappy  for  life  to  sacrifice  me  to  any 
one  else." 

'*  But  Augustine,  you  do  not  know  what  a  painter  is," 
cried  her  mother,  in  horror. 

'*  Madame  Guillaume  !  "  said  the  old  father,  imposing 
silence  on  his  wife  —  "  Augustine,"  he  went  on,  "  artists 
are  generally  poor,  half-starved  creatures.  They  squan- 
der what  they  have,  and  are  always  worthless.  I  know, 
for  the  late  Monsieur  Joseph  Vernet,  the  late  Monsieur 
Lekain,  and  the  late  Monsieur  Noverre  were  customers 
of  mine.  My  dear,  if  you  knew  the  tricks  that  very 
Monsieur  Noverre,  and  Monsieur  le  chevalier  de  Saint- 
Georges,  and  above  all.  Monsieur  Philidor  played  upon 
my  predecessor  Pere  Chevrel !  They  are  queer  fellows, 
very  queer.  They  all  have  a  glib  way  of  talking  and 
fine  manners.     Now  your  Monsieur  Sumer  —  Som  —  " 

"  De  Sommervieux,  papa." 

"  Well,  so  be  it,  — de  Sommervieux,  he  never  could 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  49 

be  as  charming  with  you  as  Monsieur  le  chevalier  de 
Saint-Georges  was  with  me  the  day  I  obtained  a  con- 
sular sentence  against  him.  That's  how  it  was  with 
people  of  good-breeding  in  those  days." 

''  But  papa,  Monsieur  Theodore  is  a  nobleman,  and 
he  writes  me  that  he  is  rich ;  his  father  was  called  the 
Chevalier  de  Sommervieux  before  the  Revolution." 

At  these  words  Monsieur  Guillaume  looked  at  his  ter- 
rible better-half,  who  was  tapping  her  foot  and  keeping 
a  dead  silence  with  the  air  of  a  thwarted  woman ;  she 
would  not  even  cast  her  indignant  ej-es  at  Augustine, 
and  seemed  determined  to  leave  the  whole  responsi- 
bility of  the  misguided  affair  to  Monsieur  Guillaume, 
inasmuch  as  her  advice  was  not  listened  to.  However, 
in  spite  of  her  apparent  phlegm,  she  could  not  refrain 
from  exclaiming,  when  she  saw  her  husband  playing 
such  a  gentle  part  in  a  catastrophe  that  was  not  com- 
mercial :  ''  Really,  monsieur,  you  are  as  weak  as  3'our 
daughter,  but  —  " 

The  noise  of  a  carriage  stopping  before  the  door  in- 
terrupted the  reprimand  which  the  old  merchant  was 
dreading.  A  moment  more,  and  Madame  Roguin  was 
in  the  middle  of  the  room  looking  at  the  three  actors  in 
the  domestic  drama. 

*'  I  know  all,  cousin,'*  she  said,  with  a  patronizing 
air. 

If  Madame  Roguin  bad  a  fault,  it  was  that  of  think- 
4 


50  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

ing  that  the  wife  of  a  Parisian  notar}-  could  play  the 
part  of  a  great  lad3\ 

*'  I  know  all,"  she  repeated,  "  and  I  come  to  Noah's 
Ark  like  the  dove,  with  an  olive-branch,  —  I  read  that 
allegor}^  in  the  *  Genius  of  Christianity,'  "  she  remarked, 
turning  to  Madame  Guillaume  ;  "  therefore  the  compari- 
son ought  to  please  you.  Let  me  tell  you,"  she  added, 
smiling  at  Augustine,  *'  that  Monsieur  de  Sommei-vieux 
is  a  charming  man.  He  brought  me  this  morning  a 
portrait  of  myself,  done  with  a  masterly  hand.  It  is 
worth  at  least  six  thousand  francs." 

At  these  words  she  tapped  lightly  on  Monsieur  Guil- 
laume's  arm.  The  old  merchant  could  not  refrain  from 
pushing  out  his  lips  in  a  manner  that  was  peculiar  to 
him. 

'*  I  know  Monsieur  de  Sommervieux  very  well,"  con- 
tinued the  dove.  "  For  the  last  fortnight  he  has  at- 
tended my  parties,  and  he  is  the  present  attraction  of 
them.  He  told  me  all  his  troubles,  and  I  am  here  on 
his  behalf.  I  know  that  he  adores  Augustine,  and  is 
determined  to  have  her.  Ah !  my  dear  cousin,  don't 
shake  your  head.  Let  me  tell  you  that  he  is  about  to 
be  made  a  baron,  and  that  the  Emperor  himself,  on  the 
occasion  of  his  visit  to  the  Salon,  made  him  a  cheva- 
lier of  the  Legion  of  honor.  Roguin  is  now  his  notary 
and  knows  all  his  affairs.  Well,  I  can  assure  you  that 
Monsieur  de  Sommervieux  has  good,  sound  property 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  61 

which  brings  him  in  twelve  thousand  a  year.  Now,  the 
father-in-law  of  a  man  in  his  position  might  count  on 
becoming  something  of  importance,  —  mayor  of  the 
arrondissement,  for  instance.  Don't  you  remember 
how  Monsieur  Dupont  was  made  count  of  the  Empire 
and  senator  merely  because,  as  mayor,  it  was  his  duty 
to  congratulate  the  Emperor  on  his  entrance  to  Vienna  ? 
Yes,  yes,  this  marriage  must  take  place.  I  adore  the 
young  man,  mj'self.  His  behavior  to  Augustine  is 
hardl}'  met  with  now-a-daj-s  outside  of  a  novel.  Don't 
fret,  my  dear  child,  you  will  be  happy,  and  everybody 
will  envy  j^ou.  There  's  the  Duchesse  de  Carigliano,  she 
comes  to  my  parties  and  delights  in  Monsieur  de  Som- 
mervieux.  Gossiping  tongues  do  say  she  comes  to  my 
house  onl}^  to  meet  him,  — just  as  if  a  duchess  of  3'es- 
terda}^  was  out  of  place  in  the  salon  of  a  Chevrel  whose 
family  can  show  a  hundred  years  of  good,  sound  bour- 
geoisie behind  it.  Augustine,"  added  Madame  Ro- 
guin,  after  a  slight  pause,  "  I  have  seen  the  portrait. 
Heavens !  it  is  lovely.  Did  you  know  the  Emperor 
had  asked  to  see  it?  He  said,  laughing,  to  the  vice- 
chamberlain,  that  if  he  had  many  women  like  that 
Ht  his  court  so  many  kings  would  flock  there  that  he 
could  easily  keep  the  peace  of  Europe.  Was  n't  that 
flattering?" 

The  domestic  storms  with  which  the  day  began  were 
something  like  those  of  nature,  for  they  were  followed 


52  l^ame  and  Sorrow, 

by  calm  and  serene  weather.  Madame  Roguin*s  argu- 
liients  were  so  seductive,  she  managed  to  pull  so  many 
cords  in  the  withered  hearts  of  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Guillaume  that  she  at  least  found  one  which  enabled  her 
to  carry  the  day.  At  this  singular  period  of  our  na- 
tional history,  commerce  and  finance  were  to  a  greater 
degree  than  ever  before  possessed  with  an  insane  desire 
to  ally  themselves  with  the  nobility,  and  the  generals 
of  the  Empire  profited  immensely  by  this  sentiment. 
Monsieur  Guillaume,  however,  was  remarkable  for  his 
opposition  to  this  curious  passion.  His  favorite  axioms 
were  that  if  a  woman  wanted  happiness  she  ought  to 
marr}^  a  man  of  her  own  class ;  that  persons  were  al- 
ways sooner  or  later  punished  for  tr3'ing  to  climb  too 
high ;  that  love  could  ill  endure  the  petty  annoyances  of 
home-life,  and  that  persons  should  look  only  for  solid 
virtues  in  each  other ;  that  neither  of  the  married  pair 
should  know  more  than  the  other,  because  the  first 
requisite  was  complete  mutual  understanding ;  and  that 
a  husband  who  spoke  Greek  and  a  wife  who  spoke 
Latin  would  be  certain  to  die  of  hunger.  He  promul- 
gated that  last  remark  as  a  sort  of  proverb.  He  com- 
pared marriages  thus  made  to  those  old-fashioned  stuffs 
of  silk  and  wool  in  which  the  silk  always  ended  hy  wear- 
ing out  the  wool.  And  yet,  there  was  so  much  vanity 
at  the  bottom  of  his  heart  that  the  prudence  of  the  pilot 
who  had  guided  with  such  wisdom  the  affairs  of  the 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  68 

Cat-playing-ball  succumbed  to  the  aggressive  volubil- 
it}^  of  Madame  Roguin.  The  stern  Madame  Guillaume 
was  the  first  to  derogate  from  her  principles  and  to  find 
in  her  daughter's  inclinations  an  excuse  for  so  doing. 
She  consented  to  receive  Monsieur  de  Sommervieux  at 
her  house,  resolving  in  her  own  mind  to  examine  him 
rigorously. 

The  old  merchant  went  at  once  to  find  Joseph  Lebas 
and  explain  to  him  the  situation  of  things.  At  half- 
past  six  that  evening  the  dining-room  immortalized  by 
the  painter  contained  under  its  skylight  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Roguin,  the  young  artist  and  his  charming 
Augustine,  Joseph  Lebas,  who  found  his  comfort  in  sub- 
mission, and  Mademoiselle  Virginie,  whose  headache 
had  disappeared.  Monsieur  and  Madame  Guillaume 
beheld  in  perspective  the  establishment  of  both  their 
daughters,  and  the  certainty  that  the  fortunes  of  the 
Cat-playing-ball  were  likely  to  pass  into  good  hands. 
Their  satisfaction  was  at  its  height  when,  at  dessert, 
Theodore  presented  to  them  the  marvellous  picture, 
representing  the  interior  of  the  old  shop  (which  they 
had  not  yet  seen),  to  which  was  due  the  happiness  of 
all  present. 

"  Is  n't  it  pretty !  "  cried  Monsieur  Guillaume ;  **  and 
they  give  you  thirty  thousand  francs  for  it?" 

''  Why,  there  are  my  lappets  !  "  exclaimed  Madame 
Guillaume. 


54  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

''And  the  goods  unfolded!"  added  Lebas;  "jou 
might  take  them  in  your  hand." 

"  All  kinds  of  stuffs  are  good  to  paint,"  replied  the 
painter,  "  We  should  be  onl}^  too  happ}^,  we  modern 
artists,  if  we  could  approach  the  perfection  of  ancient 
draperies." 

''Ha!  so  you  like  drapery?"  cried  Pere  Guillaume. 
"  Shake  hands,  my  young  friend.  If  jou  value  com- 
merce  we  shall  soon  understand  each  other.  Why,  in- 
deed, should  persons  despise  it?  The  world  began 
with  trade,  for  did  n't  Adam  sell  Paradise  for  an 
apple?  It  did  not  turn  out  a  \ery  good  speculation, 
by  the  bye  !  " 

And  the  old  merchant  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh,  ex- 
cited by  the  champagne  which  he  was  circulating  liber- 
2\\y.  The  bandage  over  the  eyes  of  the  young  lover 
was  so  thick  that  he  thought  his  new  parents  very 
agreeable.  He  was  not  above  amusing  them  with  a 
few  little  caricatures,  all  in  good  taste.  He  pleased 
every  one.  Later,  when  the  party  had  dispersed,  and 
the  salon,  furnished  in  a  way  that  was  "rich  and 
warm,"  to  use  the  draper's  own  expression,  was  de- 
sei-ted,  and  while  Madame  Guillaume  was  going  about 
from  table  to  table  and  from  candelabra  to  candlestick, 
hastily  blowing  out  the  lights,  the  worthy  merchant 
who  could  see  clearly  enough  when  it  was  a  question 
of  money  or  of  business,  called  his  daughter  Augus- 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  55 

tine,  and,   placing  her    on  his  knee,  made   her  the 
following  harangue :  — 

"  My  dear  child,  you  shall  marry  your  Sommervieux 
since  3'ou  wish  it ;  I  give  you  permission  to  risk  your 
capital  of  happiness.  But  I  am  not  taken  in  b}'  those 
thirty  thousand  francs,  said  to  be  earned  by  spoiling 
good  canvas.  Money  that  comes  so  quickly  goes  as 
quickly.  Didn't  I  hear  that  young  scatterbrain  say  this 
very  evening  that  if  money  was  coined  round  it  was 
meant  to  roll?  Ha!  if  it  is  round  for  spendthrifts,  it 
is  flat  for  economical  folks  who  pile  it  up.  Now,  my 
child,  your  handsome  youth  talks  of  giving  you  car- 
riages and  diamonds.  If  he  has  money  and  chooses 
to  spend  it  on  you,  bene  ait;  I  have  nothing  to  say. 
But  as  to  what  I  shall  give  you,  I  don't  choose  that  any 
of  my  hard-earned  money  shall  go  for  carriages  and 
trumpery.  He  who  spends  too  much  is  never  rich. 
Your  dowry  of  three  hundred  thousand  francs  won't 
buy  all  Paris,  let  me  tell  you  ;  and  3'ou  need  n't  reckon 
on  a  few  hundred  thousand  more,  for  I'll  make  you 
wait  for  them  a  long  time  yet,  God  willing !  So  I  took 
your  lover  into  a  comer  and  talked  to  him  ;  and  a  man 
who  manoeuvred  the  failure  of  Lecocq  did  n't  have  much 
trouble  in  getting  an  artist  to  agree  that  his  wife's  prop- 
erty should  be  settled  on  herself.  I  shall  have  an  eye 
to  the  contract  and  see  that  he  makes  the  proper  settle- 
ments upon  you.    Now,  my  dear,  I  hope  you  *11  make 


66  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

me  a  grandfather,  and  for  that  reason,  faith,  I  'ra  be- 
ginning to  think  about  my  grandchildren.  Swear  to  me, 
therefore,  that  you  will  not  sign  any  paper  about  money 
without  first  consulting  me ;  and  if  I  should  go  to  rejoin 
Pere  Chevrel  too  soon,  promise  me  to  consult  Lebas, 
who  is  to  be  your  brother-in-law.  Will  yoxx  promise 
and  swear  these  two  things?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  papa,  I  swear  it." 

At  the  words,  uttered  in  a  tender  voice,  the  old  man 
kissed  his  daughter  on  both  cheeks.  That  night  all  the 
lovers  slept  as  peacefully  as  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Guillaume. 

A  few  months  after  that  memorable  Sunday  the  high 
altar  of  Saint-Leu  witnessed  two  marriages  very  unlike 
each  other.  Augustine  and  Theodore  approached  it 
beaming  with  happiness,  their  eyes  full  of  love,  ele- 
ganth'  attired,  and  attended  by  a  brilliant  compan3^ 
Virginie,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  father,  followed 
her  young  sister  in  humbler  guise,  like  a  shadow  needed 
for  the  harmony  of  the  picture.  Monsieur  Guillaume 
had  taken  infinite  pains  to  so  arrange  the  wedding  that 
Virginie's  marriage  should  take  precedence  of  Augus- 
tine*s ;  but  he  had  the  grief  of  seeing  that  the  higher 
and  lesser  clergy  one  and  all  addressed  the  younger 
and  more  elegant  of  the  brides  first.  He  overheard 
some  of  his  neighbors  highly  commending  Mademoiselle 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  67 

Virginie's  good  sense  in  making,  as  they  said,  a  solid 
marriage  and  remaining  faithful  to  "  the  quarter ; "  and 
he  also  overheard  a  few  sneers,  prompted  by  envy, 
about  Augustine  who  had  chosen  to  marry  an  artist,  a 
nobleman,  coupled  with  a  pretended  fear  that  if  the 
Guillaumes  were  becoming  ambitious  the  draper's  trade 
was  ruined.  When  an  old  dealer  in  fans  declared  that 
the  young  spendthrift  would  soon  bring  his  wife  to 
poverty.  Monsieur  Guillaume  congratulated  himself  in 
petto  for  his  prudence  as  to  the  marriage  settlements. 

That  night,  after  an  elegant  ball  followed  by  one  of 
those  sumptuous  suppers  that  are  almost  forgotten  by 
the  present  generation.  Monsieur  and  Madame  Guil- 
laume remained  at  a  house  belonging  to  them  in  the  rue 
du  Colombier,  where  the  wedding  party  took  place,  and 
where  they  intended  to  live  in  future ;  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Lebas  returned  in  a  hired  coach  to  the  rue 
Saint-Denis  and  took  the  helm  of  the  Cat-playing-ball ; 
while  the  artist,  intoxicated  with  his  happiness,  caught 
his  dear  Augustine  in  his  arms  as  their  coupe  reached 
the  rue  des  Trois-Freres,  and  carried  her  to  an  apart- 
ment decorated  with  the  treasures  of  all  the  arts. 

The  raptures  of  passion  to  which  Theodore  now  de- 
livered himself  up  carried  the  young  household  through 
one  whole  year  without  a  single  cloud  to  dim  the  blue 
of  the  sky  beneath  which  they  lived.  To  such  lovers 
existence  brought  no  burden ;  each  day  some  new  and 


58  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

exquisite  Jioritnre  of  pleasure  were  evolved  by  Theo- 
dore, who  delighted  in  varying  the  transports  of  love 
with  the  soft  languor  of  those  moments  of  repose  when 
souls  float  upward  into  ecstasy  and  there  forget  cor- 
poreal union.  Augustine,  wholly  incapable  of  reflec- 
tion, gave  herself  up  to  the  undulating  current  of  her 
happiness ;  she  felt  she  could  not  yield  too  much  to 
the  sanctioned  and  sacred  love  of  marriage ;  simple 
and  artless,  she  knew  nothing  of  the  coquetry  of  denial, 
still  less  of  the  ascendency  a  young  girl  of  rank  obtains 
over  a  husband  by  clever  caprices ;  she  loved  too  well 
to  calculate  the  future,  and  never  once  imagined  that 
so  enchanting  a  life  could  come  to  an  end.  Happy  in 
being  all  the  life  and  all  the  jo}^  of  her  husband,  she 
believed  his  inextinguishable  love  would  forever  crown 
her  with  the  noblest  of  wreaths,  just  as  her  devotion 
and  her  obedience  would  remain  a  perpetual  attraction. 
In  fact,  the  felicity  of  love  had  made  her  so  brilliant  that 
her  beauty  filled  her  with  pride  and  inspired  her  with  a 
sense  that  she  could  alwaj^s  reign  over  a  man  so  easy 
to  impassion  as  Monsieur  de  Sommervieux.  Thus  her 
womanhood  gave  her  no  other  instructions  than  those 
of  love.  In  the  bosom  of  her  happiness  she  was  still 
the  ignorant  little  girl  who  lived  obscurel}^  in  the  rue 
Saint-Denis,  with  no  thought  of  acquiring  the  manners, 
or  the  education,  or  the  tone  of  the  world  in  which  she 
was  to  live.     Her  words  were  the  words  of  love,  and 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  59 

there,  indeed,  she  did  displa}^  a  certain  suppleness  of 
mind  and  delicacy  of  expression ;  but  she  was  using  a 
language  common  to  all  womankind  when  plunged  into 
a  passion  which  seems  their  element.  If,  by  chance, 
Augustine  gave  utterance  to  some  idea  that  jarred  with 
those  of  Theodore,  the  artist  laughed,  just  as  we  laugh 
at  the  first  mistakes  of  a  stranger  speaking  our  lan- 
guage, though  the}'  weary  us  if  not  corrected. 

In  spite  of  all  this  ardent  love,  Sommervieux  felt,  at 
the  end  of  a  year  as  enchanting  as  it  had  been  rapid, 
the  need  of  going  back  to  his  work  and  his  old  habits. 
Moreover,  his  wife  was  enceinte.  He  renewed  his  rela- 
tions with  his  friends.  During  the  long  year  of  physical 
suffering,  when,  for  the  first  time,  a  young  wife  carries 
and  nurses  an  infant,  he  worked,  no  doubt,  with  ardor ; 
but  occasionally  he  returned  for  some  amusement  to  the 
distractions  of  society.  The  house  to  which  he  pre- 
ferred to  go  was  that  of  the  Duchesse  de  Carigliano, 
who  had  finally  attracted  the  now  celebrated  artist  to 
her  parties. 

When  Augustine  recovered,  and  her  son  no  longer 
required  assiduous  cares  which  kept  his  mother  from 
social  life,  Theodore  had  reached  a  point  where  self- 
love  roused  in  him  a  desire  to  appear  before  the  world 
with  a  beautiful  woman  whom  all  men  should  envy  and 
admire.  The  delight  of  showing  herself  in  fashionable 
salons  decked  with  the  fame  she  derived  from  her  bus- 


60  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

band,  was  to  Augustine  a  new  harvest  of  pleasures,  but 
it  was  also  the  last  that  conjugal  happiness  was  to  bring 
her. 

She  began  by  offending  her  husband's  vanity  ;  for,  in 
spite  of  all  his  efforts,  her  ignorance,  the  incorrectness 
of  her  language,  and  the  narrowness  of  her  ideas,  viewed 
from  the  standpoint  of  her  present  surroundings,  were 
manifest.  The  character  of  de  Sommervieux,  held  in 
check  for  nearly  two  years  and  a  half  by  the  first  trans- 
ports of  love,  now  took,  under  the  calm  of  a  possession 
no  longer  fresh,  its  natural  bent,  and  he  returned  to  the 
habits  which  had  for  a  time  been  diverted  from  their 
course.  Poetry,  painting,  and  the  exquisite  enjoyments 
of  the  imagination  possess  inalienable  rights  over  minds 
that  can  rise  to  them.  These  needs  had  not  been  balked 
in  Theodore  dui'ing  those  two  and  a  half  years ;  they 
had  simply  found  another  nourishment.  When  the 
fields  of  love  were  explored,  when  the  artist,  like  the 
children,  had  gathered  the  roses  and  the  wake-robins 
with  such  eagerness  that  he  did  not  notice  his  hands 
were  full,  the  scene  changed.  It  now  happened  that 
when  the  artist  showed  his  wife  a  sketch  of  his  most 
beautiful  compositions,  he  took  notice  that  she  answered, 
in  the  tone  of  Monsieur  Guillaume,  "  Oh,  how  pretty  !  " 
Such  admiration,  without  the  slightest  warmth,  did  not 
come,  he  felt,  from  an  inward  feeling,  it  was  the  ex- 
pression  of  blind  love.     Augustine  preferred  a  glance 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  61 

of  love  to  the  noblest  work  of  art.     The  only  sublimity 
she  was  able  to  perceive  was  that  in  her  own  heart. 

At  last  Theodore  could  not  blind  himself  to  the  evi- 
dence of  a  bitter  truth ;  his  wife  had  no  feeling  for 
poetry ;  she  could  not  live  in  his  sphere  of  thought ; 
she  could  not  follow  in  the  flight  of  his  caprices,  his 
impulses,  his  joys,  his  sorrows ;  she  walked  the  earth 
in  a  real  world,  while  his  head  sought  the  heavens. 
Ordinary  minds  cannot  appreciate  the  ever-springing 
sufferings  of  one  who,  being  united  to  another  by  the 
closest  of  all  ties,  is  compelled  to  drive  back  within  his 
own  soul  the  precious  overflow  of  his  thoughts,  and  to 
crush  into  nothingness  the  images  which  some  magic 
force  compels  him  to  create.  To  such  a  one  the  tor- 
ture is  the  more  cruel  when  his  feeling  for  his  com- 
panion commands  him,  as  his  first  duty,  to  keep  nothing 
from  her,  neither  the  outcome  of  his  thoughts  nor  the 
effusions  of  his  soul.  The  will  of  nature  is  not  to  be 
evaded ;  it  is  inexorable,  like  necessitj^,  which  is,  as  it 
were,  a  sort  of  social  law.  Sommervieux  took  refuge  in 
the  silence  and  solitude  of  his  studio,  hoping  that  the 
habit  of  living  among  artists  might  train  his  wife  and 
develop  the  benumbed  germs  of  mind  which  all  superior 
souls  believe  to  exist  in  other  souls. 

But,  alas,  Augustine  was  too  sincerely  religious  not 
to  be  frightened  at  the  tone  of  the  artist- world.  At  the 
first  dinner  given  by  Theodore,  a  young  painter  said  to 


62  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

her,  with  a  juvenile  light-heartedness  she  was  unable  to 
understand,  but  which  really  absolves  all  jests  about 
religion :  "  Why,  madame,  your  paradise  is  not  as 
glorious  as  Raffaelle's  Transfiguration,  but  I  get  a  little 
tired  of  looking  even  at  that."  Augustine,  conse- 
quently, met  this  brilliant  and  artistic  society  in  a 
spirit  of  disapproval,  which  was  at  once  perceived. 
She  became  a  constraint  upon  it.  When  artists  are 
constrained  they  are  pitiless ;  they  either  fly,  or  they 
stay  and  scoff. 

Madame  Guillaume  had,  among  other  absurdities, 
that  of  magnifying  the  dignity  she  considered  to  be 
an  appanage  of  a  married  woman ;  and  though  Augus- 
tine had  often  laughed  about  it  she  was  unable  to  keep 
herself  from  a  slight  imitation  of  the  maternal  prudery. 
This  exaggeration  of  purit3^  which  virtuous  women  do 
not  alwaj's  escape,  gave  rise  to  a  few  harmless  carica- 
tures and  epigrams,  innocent  nonsense  in  good  taste, 
with  which  de  Sommervieux  could  scarcely  be  angrj'. 
In  fact,  such  jests  were  only  reprisals  on  the  part  of  his 
friends.  Still,  nothing  could  be  really  a  jest  to  a  soul 
so  ready  as  that  of  Theodore  to  receive  impressions 
from  without.  Thus  he  was  led,  perhaps  insensibty, 
to  a  coldness  of  feeling  which  went  on  increasing. 
Whoso  desires  to  reach  perfect  conjugal  happiness 
must  climb  a  mountain  along  a  narrow  way  close  to 
a  sharp  and   slippery  precipice ;    down  that  precipice 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  63 

the  artist's  love  now  slid.  He  believed  his  wife  in- 
capable of  understanding  the  moral  considerations 
which  justified,  to  his  mind,  the  course  he  now  adopted 
towards  her ;  and  he  thought  himself  innocent  in  hid- 
ing thoughts  she  could  not  comprehend,  and  in  doing 
acts  which  could  never  be  justified  before  the  tribunal 
of  her  commonplace  conscience. 

Augustine  retired  into  gloomy  and  silent  sorrow. 
These  secret  feelings  drew  a  veil  between  the  married 
pair  which  grew  thicker  day  by  day.  Though  her  hus- 
band did  not  cease  his  attentions  to  her,  Augustine 
could  not  keep  from  trembling  when  she  saw  him  reserv- 
ing for  society  the  treasures  of  mind  and  charm  which 
he  had  hitherto  bestowed  on  her.  Soon  she  took 
fatally  to  heart  the  livelj"  talk  she  heard  in  the  world 
about  man's  inconstancj'.  She  made  no  complaint,  but 
her  whole  bearing  was  equivalent  to  a  reproach.  Three 
years  after  her  marriage  this  young  and  pretty  woman, 
who  seemed  so  brilliant  in  her  brilliant  equipage,  who 
lived  in  a  sphere  of  fame  and  wealth,  alwaj's  envied  by 
careless  and  unobserving  people  who  never  rightly  esti- 
mate the  situations  of  life,  was  a  prey  to  bitter  grief; 
her  color  faded ;  she  reflected,  she  compared  ;  and  then, 
at  last,  sorrow  revealed  to  her  the  axioms  of  experience. 

She  resolved  to  maintain  herself  courageously  within 
the  circle  of  her  duty,  hoping  that  such  generous  con- 
duct would,  sooner  or  later,  win  back  her  husband's 


64  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

love ;  but  it  was  not  to  be.  When  Sommervieux,  tired 
of  work,  left  his  studio,  Augustine  never  hid  her  work 
so  quickly  that  the  artist  did  not  see  her  mending  the 
household  linen  or  his  own  with  the  minute  care  of  a  good 
housekeeper.  She  supplied,  generously-  and  without  a 
word,  the  money  required  for  her  husband's  extrava- 
gances ;  but  in  her  desire  to  save  her  dear  Theodore's 
own  fortune  she  was  too  economical  on  herself  and  on 
certain  details  of  the  housekeeping.  Such  conduct  is 
incompatible  with  the  free  and  easy  ways  of  artists, 
who,  when  they  reach  the  end  of  their  tether,  have 
enjoyed  life  so  much  that  they  never  ask  the  reason 
of  their  ruin. 

It  is  useless  to  note  each  lowered  tone  of  color 
through  which  the  brillianc}^  of  their  hone3'moon  faded 
and  then  expired,  leaving  them  in  deep  darkness. 
One  evening  poor  Augustine,  who  had  lately  heard  her 
husband  speaking  with  enthusiasm  of  the  Duchesse  de 
Carigliano,  received  some  ill-natured  information  on  the 
nature  of  de  Sommervieux's  attachment  to  that  cele- 
brated coquette  of  the  imperial  court.  At  twenty-one, 
in  the  glow  of  youth  and  beauty,  Augustine  learned  she 
was  betrayed  for  a  woman  of  thirty-six.  Feeling  herself 
wretched  in  the  midst  of  society  and  oi  fetes  that  were 
now  a  desert  to  her,  the  poor  little  creature  no  longer 
noticed  the  admiration  she  excited  nor  the  envy  she  in- 
spired.   Her  face  took  another  expression.    Sorrow  laid 


Wame  and  Sorrow*  65 

upon  each  feature  the  gentleness  of  resignation  and  the 
pallor  of  rejected  love.  It  was  not  long  before  men, 
known  for  their  seductive  powers,  courted  her ;  but  she 
remained  solitar}^  and  virtuous.  A  few  contemptuous 
words  which  escaped  her  husband  brought  her  to  intol- 
erable despair.  Fatal  gleams  of  light  now  showed  her 
the  points  where,  through  the  pettiness  of  her  educa- 
tion, complete  union  between  her  soul  and  that  of 
Theodore  had  been  prevented ;  and  her  love  was  great 
enough  to  absolve  him  and  blame  herself  She  wept 
tears  of  blood  as  she  saw,  too  late,  that  there  are  ill- 
assorted  marriages  of  minds  as  well  as  of  habits  and  of 
ranks. 

Thinking  over  the  spring-tide  happiness  of  their 
union,  she  comprehended  the  fulness  of  her  past 
joys,  and  admitted  to  her  own  soul  that  so  rich  a 
harvest  of  love  was  indeed  a  lifetime  which  might 
well  be  paid  for  by  her  present  sorrow.  And  yet  she 
loved  with  too  single  a  mind  to  lose  all  hope ;  and  she 
was  brave  enough  at  one-and-twenty  to  endeavor  to 
educate  herself  and  make  her  imagination  more  worthy 
of  the  one  she  so  admired.  ''  If  I  ana  not  a  poet,"  she 
said  in  her  heart,  **  at  least  I  will  understand  poetr3\" 
Employing  that  force  of  will  and  energy  which  all 
women  possess  when  they  love,  Madame  de  Sommer- 
vieux  attempted  to  change  her  nature,  her  habits,  and 
her  ideas ;  but  though  she  read   many  volumes  and 

5 


66  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

studied  with  the  utmost  courage,  she  only  succeeded  in 
making  herself  less  ignorant.  Quickness  of  mind  and 
the  charms  of  conversation  are  gifts  of  nature  or  the 
fruits  of  an  education  begun  in  the  cradle.  She  could 
appreciate  music  and  enjoy  it,  but  she  could  not  sing 
with  taste.  She  understood  literature  and  even  the 
beauties  of  poetr}' ,  but  it  was  too  late  to  train  her  re- 
bellious memoiy.  She  listened  with  interest  to  con- 
versation in  societ}^,  but  she  contributed  nothing  to  it. 
Her  religious  ideas  and  the  prejudices  of  her  early 
youth  prevented  the  complete  emancipation  of  her  mind. 
And  besides  all  this,  a  bias  against  her  which  she  could 
not  conquer  had,  little  b}^  little,  glided  into  her  hus- 
band's mind.  The  artist  laughed  in  his  heart  at  those 
who  praised  his  wife  to  him,  and  his  laughter  was  not 
unfounded.  Embarrassed  by  her  strong  desire  to  please 
him,  she  felt  her  mind  and  her  knowledge  melt  away  in 
his  presence.  Even  her  fidelity  displeased  the  unfaith- 
ful husband ;  it  seemed  as  though  he  would  fain  see 
her  guilty  of  wrong  when  he  complained  of  her  virtue  as 
unfeeling.  Augustine  struggled  hard  to  abdicate  her 
reason,  to  yield  and  bend  to  the  fancies  and  caprices  of 
her  husband,  and  to  devote  her  whole  life  to  soothe  the 
egotism  of  his  vanity,  —  she  never  gathered  the  fruit  of 
her  sacrifices.  Perhaps  they  had  each  let  the  moment 
go  by  when  souls  can  comprehend  each  other.  The  day 
came  when  the  too-sensitive  heart  of  the  young  wife 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  67 

received  a  blow,  —  one  of  those  shocks  which  strain 
the  ties  of  feehng  so  far  that  it  seems  as  though  they 
snapped.  At  first  she  isolated  herself.  But  soon  the 
fatal  thought  entered  her  mind  to  seek  advice  and  con- 
solation from  her  own  famil}'. 

Accordingly,  one  morning  earl}',  she  drove  to  the 
grotesque  entrance  of  the  silent  and  gloomy  house  in 
which  her  childhood  had  been  passed.  She  sighed  as 
she  looked  at  the  window  from  which  she  had  sent  a 
first  kiss  to  him  who  had  filled  her  life  with  fame  and 
sorrow.  Nothing  was  changed  in  those  cavernous  pre- 
cincts, except  that  the  business  had  taken  a  new  lease 
of  life.  Augustine's  sister  sat  behind  the  counter  in 
her  mother's  old  place.  The  poor  aflflicted  woman  met 
her  brother-in-law  with  a  pen  behind  his  ear,  and  he 
hardly  listened  to  her,  so  busy  was  he.  The  alarming 
signs  of  an  approaching  "  inventory  "  were  evident,  and 
in  a  few  moments  he  left  her,  asking  to  be  excused. 

Her  sister  received  her  rather  coldl}',  and  showed 
some  ill-will.  In  fact,  Augustine  in  her  palmy  days, 
brilliant  in  happiness  and  driving  about  in  a  pretty 
equipage,  had  never  come  to  see  her  sister  except  in 
passing.  The  wife  of  the  prudent  Lebas  now  imag- 
ined that  mone}-  was  the  cause  of  this  earlj'  visit,  and 
she  assumed  a  reserved  tone,  which  made  Augustine 
smile.  The  artist's  wife  saw  that  her  mother  had  a 
counterpart  (except  for  the  lappets  of  her  cap)  who 


68  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

would  keep  up  the  antique  dignity  of  the  Cat-play- 
ing-ball.  At  breakfast,  however,  she  noticed  certain 
changes  which  did  honor  to  the  good  sense  of  Joseph 
Lebas,  —  the  clerks  no  longer  rose  and  went  away  at 
dessert;  they  were  allowed  to  use  their  faculty  of 
speech,  and  the  abundance  on  the  table  showed  ease 
and  comfort,  without  luxury.  The  j'oung  woman  of 
society  noticed  the  coupons  of  a  box  at  the  Fran9ais, 
where  she  remembered  having  seen  her  sister  from 
time  to  time.  Madame  Lebas  wore  a  cashmere  shawl 
over  her  shoulders,  the  elegance  of  which  was  a  sign 
of  the  generosity  with  which  her  husband  treated 
her.  In  short,  the  pair  were  advancing  with  their 
century. 

Augustine  was  deeply  moved  to  see,  during  the 
course  of  the  day,  many  signs  of  a  calm  and  equable 
happiness  enjo3^ed  by  this  well-assorted  couple,  —  a 
happiness  without  exaltation,  it  was  true,  but  also 
without  peril.  They  had  taken  life  as  a  commer- 
cial enterprise,  in  which  their  first  duty  was  to  honor 
their  business.  Not  finding  in  her  husband  any  great 
warmth  of  love,  Virginie  had  set  to  work  to  pro- 
duce it.  Led  insensibly  to  respect  and  to  cherish  his 
wife,  the  time  it  took  for  their  wedded  happiness  to 
blossom  now  seemed  to  Joseph  Lebas  as  a  pledge  of  its 
duration ;  so,  when  the  sorrowful  Augustine  told  her 
tale  of  trouble,  she  was  forced  to  endure  a  deluge  of  the 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  69 

commonplace  ideas  which  the  ethics  of  the  rue  Saint- 
Denis  suggested  to  Virginie. 

*'The  evil  is  done,  wife,"  said  Joseph  Lebas ;  "we 
must  now  try  to  give  our  sister  the  best  advice." 
Whereupon,  the  able  man  of  business  ponderously  ex- 
plained the  relief  that  the  laws  and  established  customs 
might  give  to  Augustine,  and  so  enable  her  to  sur- 
mount her  troubles.  He  numbered,  if  we  may  so 
express  it,  all  the  considerations ;  ranged  them  in 
categories,  as  though  they  were  goods  of  different 
qualities ;  then  he  put  them  in  the  scales,  weighed 
them,  and  finally  came  to  the  conclusion  that  necessity 
required  his  sister-in-law  to  take  a  firm  stand,  —  a 
decision  which  did  not  satisfy  the  love  she  still  felt 
for  her  husband,  a  feeling  that  was  reawakened  in  full 
force  when  she  heard  Lebas  discussing  judicial  methods 
of  asserting  her  rights.  Augustine  thanked  her  two 
friends  and  returned  home,  more  undecided  than  before 
she  consulted  them. 

The  next  day  she  ventured  to  the  house  in  the  rue 
du  Colombier,  intending  to  confide  her  sorrows  to  her 
father  and  mother,  for  she  was  like  those  hopelessly  ill 
persons  who  try  all  remedies  in  sheer  despair,  even  the 
recipes  of  old  women.  Monsieur  and  Madame  Guil- 
laume  received  their  daughter  with  a  warmth  that 
touched  her ;  the  visit  brought  an  interest  which,  to 
them,  was  a  treasure.     For  four  years  they  had  floated 


70  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

on  the  sea  of  life  like  navigators  without  chart  or  com- 
pass. Sitting  in  their  chimnej^-corner,  thej  told  each 
other  again  and  again  the  disasters  of  the  maximum  ; 
the  stor}'  of  their  first  purchases  of  cloth,  the  manner  in 
which  they  escaped  bankruptc}^  and  above  all,  the  tale 
of  the  famous  Lecocq  failure,  old  Guillaume's  battle  of 
Marengo.  Then,  when  these  stock  stories  were  ex- 
hausted, they  recapitulated  the  profits  of  their  most 
productive  j-ears,  or  reminded  each  other  of  the  gossip 
of  the  Saint-Denis  quarter.  At  two  o'clock  Pere  Guil- 
laume  invariably  went  out  to  give  an  e3'e  to  the  estab- 
lishment of  the  Cat-pla^'ing-ball ;  on  his  way  back  he 
stopped  at  all  the  shops  which  were  formerly  his  rivals, 
whose  young  proprietors  now  endeavored  to  inveigle 
the  old  merchant  into  speculative  investments  which, 
according  to  his  usual  custom,  he  never  positively  de- 
clined. Two  good  Norman  horses  were  dying  of  pleth- 
ora in  the  stable,  but  Madame  Guillaume  never  used 
them  except  to  be  conveyed  on  Sunday's  to  high  mass 
at  the  parish  church.  Three  times  a  week  the  worthy 
couple  kept  open  table. 

Thanks  to  the  influence  of  his  son-in-law,  de  Som- 
mervieux,  Pere  Guillaume  had  been  appointed  member 
of  the  advisory  committee  on  the  equipment  of  troops. 
Ever  since  her  husband  had  held  that  high  post  under 
government,  Madame  Guillaume  had  felt  it  her  duty  to 
maintain  its  dignity ;  her  rooms  were  therefore  encum- 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  71 

bercd  with  so  many  ornaments  of  gold  and  silver,  so 
much  tasteless  though  costly  furniture,  that  the  sim- 
plest of  them  looked  like  a  tawdry  chapel.  Economy 
and  prodigality  seemed  fighting  for  precedence  in  all 
the  accessories  of  the  house.  It  really  looked  as  if  old 
Guillaume  had  considered  the  purchase  of  everything  in 
it,  down  to  a  candlestick,  as  an  investment.  In  the 
midst  of  this  bazaar,  de  Sommervieux's  famous  picture 
held  the  place  of  honor,  and  was  a  source  of  consola- 
tion to  Monsieur  and  Madame  Guillaume,  who  turned 
their  spectacled  eyes  twenty  times  a  day  on  that  tran- 
script of  their  old  life,  to  them  so  active  and  so 
exciting. 

The  appearance  of  the  house  and  of  these  rooms 
where  all  things  had  an  odor  of  old  age  and  mediocritj^, 
the  spectacle  of  the  two  old  people  stranded  on  a  rock 
far  from  the  real  world  and  the  ideas  that  move  it,  sur- 
prised and  affected  Augustine  ;  she  recognized  the  sec- 
ond half  of  the  picture  which  had  struck  her  so  forcibly 
at  the  house  of  Joseph  Lebas,  — that  of  an  active  life 
without  movement,  a  sort  of  mechanical  and  instinctive 
existence,  like  that  of  rolling  on  castors ;  and  there 
came  into  her  mind  a  sense  of  pride  in  her  sorrows  as 
she  remembered  how  they  sprang  from  a  happiness  of 
eighteen  months  duration,  worth  more  to  her  than  a 
thousand  existences  like  this,  the  void  of  which  now 
seemed  to  her  horrible.     But  she  hid  the  rather  un- 


72  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

kindly  thought,  and  displayed  her  new  qualities  of  mind 
to  her  old  parents  and  the  endearing  tenderness  which 
love  had  taught  her,  hoping  to  win  them  to  listen  favor- 
ably to  her  matrimonial  trials. 

Old  people  delight  in  such  confidences.  Madame 
Guillaume  wished  to  hear  the  minutest  particulars  of 
that  strange  life  which,  to  her,  was  almost  fabulous. 
*'  The  Travels  of  the  Baron  de  La  Houtan,"  which  she 
had  begun  many  times  and  never  finished,  had  revealed 
to  her  nothing  more  inconceivable  among  the  savages 
of  Canada. 

''  But,  my  dear  child,"  she  said,  ''  do  you  mean  to 
say  that  your  husband  shuts  himself  up  with  naked 
women,  and  you  are  simple  enough  to  believe  he  paints 
them  ?  "  With  these  words  she  laid  her  spectacles  on 
a  work-table,  shook  out  her  petticoats,  and  laid  her 
clasped  hands  on  her  knees,  raised  by  a  foot- warmer,  — 
her  favorite  attitude. 

''But,  my  dear  mother,  all  painters  are  obliged  to 
employ  models." 

"  He  took  care  not  to  tell  us  that  when  he  asked  you 
in  marriage.  If  I  had  known  it  I  would  never  have 
given  my  daughter  to  a  man  with  such  a  trade.  Re- 
ligion forbids  such  horrors ;  they  are  immoral.  What 
time  of  night  do  you  say  he  comes  home  ?  " 

"  Oh,  at  one  o'clock,  —  or  two,  perhaps." 

The  old  people  looked  at  each  other  in  amazement. 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  73 

''  Then  he  gambles,"  said  Monsieur  Guillaume.  "  In 
my  day  it  was  only  gamblers  who  stayed  out  so  late." 

Augustine  made  a  little  face  to  deny  the  accusation. 

''  You  must  suffer  dreadfully  waiting  for  him,"  said 
Madame  Guillaume.  "  But  no,  you  go  to  bed,  I  hope, 
—  don't  you  ?  Then  when  he  has  gambled  away  all  his 
money,  the  monster  comes  home  and  wakes  you  up  ?  " 

*'  No,  mother ;  on  the  contrary,  he  is  sometimes  very 
gay ;  indeed,  when  the  weather  is  fine,  he  often  asks 
me  to  get  up  and  go  into  the  woods  with  him." 

"  Into  the  woods !  —  at  that  hour?  Your  house  must 
be  very  small  if  he  has  n't  room  enough  in  it  to  stretch 
his  legs !  No,  no,  it  is  to  give  you  cold  that  the  villain 
makes  such  proposals  as  that ;  he  wants  to  get  rid  of 
you.  Did  any  one  ever  know  a  decent  man  with  a 
home  of  his  own  and  a  steady  business  gallopiug  round 
like  a  were- wolf !  " 

''  But,  my  dear  mother,  you  don't  understand  that  he 
needs  excitements  to  develop  his  genius.  He  loves  the 
scenes  which  —  " 

''  Scenes !  I  'd  make  him  fine  scenes,  I  would,"  cried 
Madame  Guillaume,  interrupting  her  daughter.  "  How 
can  you  keep  on  any  terms  at  all  with  such  a  man  ? 
And  I  don't  like  that  idea  of  his  drinking  nothing  but 
water.  It  is  n't  wholesome.  Why  does  he  dislike  to 
see  women  eat?  what  a  strange  notion  !  He  's  a  mad- 
man, that  'a  what  he  is.    All  that  3'ou  say  of  him  proves 


74  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

it.  No  sane  man  leaves  his  home  without  a  word,  and 
stays  away  ten  days.  He  told  3*ou  he  went  to  Dieppe 
to  paint  the  sea !  How  can  anyone  paint  the  sea?  He 
told  3011  such  nonsense  to  blind  3'ou." 

Augustine  opened  her  lips  to  defend  her  husband, 
but  Madame  Guillaume  silenced  her  with  a  motion  of 
her  hand  which  the  old  habit  of  obedience  led  her  to 
obey,  and  the  old  woman  continued,  in  a  sharp  voice  : 
*'  Don't  talk  to  me  of  that  man.  He  never  set  foot  in 
a  church  except  to  marry  j'ou.  Persons  who  have  no 
religion  are  capable  of  an3'thing.  Did  3'our  father  ever 
venture  to  hide  anything  from  me,  or  keep  silent  three 
da3's  without  sa3'ing  boo  to  me,  and  then  begin  to  chatter 
like  a  blind  magpie  ?    No !  " 

"  M3"  dear  mother,  yoM  judge  superior  men  too  se- 
verel3'.  If  they  had  ideas  like  other  people  they  would 
not  be  men  of  genius." 

"  Well !  then  men  of  genius  should  keep  to  them- 
selves and  not  marry.  Do  3^ou  mean  to  tell  me  that  a 
man  can  make  his  wife  miserable,  and  if  he  has  got 
genius  it  is  all  right  ?  Genius !  I  don't  see  much 
genius  in  saying  a  thing  is  black  and  white  in  the  same 
breath,  and  ramming  people's  words  down  their  throats, 
and  lording  it  over  his  famil3',  and  never  letting  his 
wife  know  how  to  take  him,  and  forbidding  her  to  amuse 
herself  unless  monsieur,  forsooth,  is  ga3',  and  forcing 
her  to  be  gloom3'  as  soon  as  he  is  —  " 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  75 

**  But,  my  dear  mother,  the  reason  for  all  such 
imaginations  —  " 

*'What  do  3'ou  mean  b}^  all  such  imaginations?" 
cried  Madame  Guillaume,  again  interrupting  her  daugh- 
ter. *'He  has  fine  ones,  faith!  What  sort  of  man 
is  he  who  takes  a  notion,  without  consulting  a  doctor, 
to  eat  nothing  but  vegetables  ?  If  he  did  it  out  of  piety, 
such  a  diet  might  do  him  some  good ;  but  he  has  no 
more  religion  than  a  Huguenot.  Who  ever  saw  a  man 
in  his  senses  love  a  horse  better  than  he  loves  his  neigh- 
bor, and  have  his  hair  curled  like  a  pagan  image,  and 
cover  his  statues  with  muslin,  and  shut  up  the  windows 
in  the  daytime  to  work  by  lamplight?  Come,  come, 
don't  talk  to  me  ;  if  he  were  not  so  grossly  immoral  he 
ought  to  be  put  in  the  insane  asylum.  You  had  better 
consult  Monsieur  Loraux,  the  vicar  of  Saint-Sulpice ; 
ask  him  what  he  thinks  of  all  this.  He  '11  tell  3'ou  that 
3*our  husband  does  n't  behave  like  a  Christian  man." 

" Oh !  mother,  how  can  30U  think  —  " 

** Think!  yes  I  do  think  it!  You  used  to  love  him 
and  therefore  you  don't  see  these  things.  But  I  re- 
member how  I  saw  him,  not  long  after  your  marriage, 
in  the  Champs-El3-sees.  He  was  on  horseback.  Well, 
he  galloped  at  full  speed  for  a  little  distance,  then  he 
stopped  and  went  at  a  snail's  pace.  I  said  to  myself 
then,  '  There 's  a  man  who  has  no  sense.'  " 

*'  Ah ! "  cried  Monsieur  Guillaume,  rubbing  his  hands. 


76  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

*'  what  a  good  thing  it  is  I  had  j'our  propertj^  settled  on 
3'ourself." 

After  Augustine  had  the  imprudence  to  explain  her 
real  causes  of  complaint  against  her  husband  the  two 
old  people  were  silent  with  indignation.  Madame  Guil- 
laume  uttered  the  word  ^'  divorce."  It  seemed  to  awaken 
the  now  inactive  old  business-man.  Moved  by  his  love 
for  his  daughter  and  also  b}^  the  excitement  such  a  step 
would  give  to  his  eventless  life,  Pere  Guillaume  roused 
himself  to  action.  He  demanded  divorce,  talked  of 
managing  it,  argued  the  pros  and  cons,  and  promised 
his  daughter  to  pay  all  the  costs,  engage  the  lawj-ers, 
see  the  judges,  and  move  heaven  and  earth.  Madame 
de  Sommervieux,  much  alarmed,  refused  his  services 
declaring  she  would  not  separate  from  her  husband 
were  she  ten  times  more  unhappy  than  she  was,  and 
saying  no  more  about  her  sorrows.  After  the  old  peo- 
ple had  endeavored,  but  in  vain,  to  soothe  her  with 
many  little  silent  and  consoling  attentions,  Augustine 
went  home  feeling  the  impossibility  of  getting  narrow 
minds  to  take  a  just  view  of  superior  men.  She  learned 
then  that  a  wife  should  hide  from  all  the  world,  even 
from  her  parents,  the  sorrows  for  which  it  is  so  difficult 
to  obtain  true  sympathy.  The  storms  and  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  higher  spheres  of  human  existence  are  com- 
prehended only  by  the  noble  minds  which  inhabit  them. 
In  all  things,  we  can  be  justly  judged  only  by  our  equals. 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  11 

Thus  poor  Augustine  found  herself  once  more  in  the 
eold  atmosphere  of  her  home,  cast  back  into  the  hor- 
rors of  her  lonely  meditations.  Study  no  longer  availed 
her,  for  study  had  not  restored  her  husband's  heart. 
Initiated  into  the  secrets  of  those  souls  of  fire  but 
deprived  of  their  resources,  she  entered  deeply  into 
their  trials  without  sharing  their  joys.  She  became  dis- 
gusted with  the  world,  which  seemed  to  her  small  and 
petty  indeed  in  presence  of  events  born  of  passion. 
In  short,  life  to  her  was  a  failure. 

One  evening  a  thought  came  into  her  mind  which  il- 
luminated the  dark  regions  of  her  grief  with  a  gleam 
of  celestial  light.  Such  a  thought  could  have  smiled 
into  no  heart  that  was  less  pure  and  guileless  than  hers. 
She  resolved  to  go  to  the  Duchesse  de  Carigliano,  not  to 
ask  for  the  heart  of  her  husband,  but  to  learn  from  that 
great  lady  the  arts  which  had  taken  him  from  her ;  to 
interest  that  proud  woman  of  the  world  in  the  mother 
of  her  friend's  children  ;  to  soften  her,  to  make  her  the 
accomplice  of  her  future  peace,  just  as  she  was  now  the 
instrument  of  her  present  sorrow. 

So,  one  day,  the  timid  Augustine,  armed  with  super- 
natural courage,  got  into  her  carriage  about  two  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  intending  to  make  her  way  into  the 
boudoir  of  the  celebrated  lady,  who  was  never  visible 
until  that  time  of  day. 

Madame  de  Sommervieux  had  never  yet  seen  any  of 


78  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

the  old  and  sumptuous  mansions  of  the  faubourg  Saint* 
Germain.  When  she  passed  through  the  majestic  ves- 
tibule, the  noble  stairwaj^s,  the  vast  salons,  filled  with 
flowers  in  spite  of  the  inclemencies  of  the  season,  and 
decorated  with  the  natural  taste  of  women  born  to  opu- 
lence or  to  the  elegant  habits  of  the  aristocracy,  Augus- 
tine was  conscious  of  a  terrible  constriction  of  her  heart. 
She  envied  the  secrets  of  an  elegance  of  which  till  then 
she  had  had  no  idea ;  she  inhaled  a  breath  of  grandeur 
which  explained  to  her  the  charm  that  house  possessed 
over  her  husband. 

When  she  reached  the  private  apartments  of  the 
duchess  she  felt  both  jealousy  and  despair  as  she  noted 
the  voluptuous  arrangement  of  the  furniture,  the  dra- 
peries, the  hangings  upon  the  walls.  There,  disorder 
was  a  grace ;  there,  luxury  affected  disdain  of  mere 
richness.  The  perfume  of  this  soft  atmosphere  pleased 
the  senses  without  annoying  them.  The  accessories  of 
these  rooms  harmonized  with  the  vista  of  gardens  and 
a  lawn  planted  with  trees  seen  through  the  windows. 
All  was  seductive,  and  yet  no  calculated  seduction  was 
felt.  The  genius  of  the  mistress  of  these  apartments 
pervaded  the  salon  in  which  Augustine  now  awaited  her. 
Madame  de  Sommervieux  endeavored  to  guess  the 
character  of  her  rival  from  the  objects  about  the  room  ; 
but  there  was  something  impenetrable  in  its  disorder  as 
in  its  s^'mmetry,  and  to  the  guileless  Augustine  it  was 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  79 

a  sealed  book.  All  that  she  could  reall}'  make  out  was 
that  the  duchess  was  a  superior  woman  as  woman.  The 
discovery  brought  her  a  painful  thought. 

''  Alas  !  can  it  be  true,"  she  said  to  herself,  *'  that  a 
simple  and  loving  heart  does  not  suffice  an  artist?  and  to 
balance  the  weight  of  their  strong  souls  must  they  be 
joined  to  feminine  souls  whose  force  is  equal  to  their 
own?  If  1  had  been  brought  up  like  this  siren  our 
weapons  at  least  would  have  been  matched  for  the 
struggle." 

'^  But  I  am  not  at  home ! "  The  curt,  sharp  words, 
though  said  in  a  low  voice  in  the  adjoining  boudoir,  were 
overheard  by  Augustine,  whose  heart  throbbed. 

''  The  lady  is  here,"  said  the  waiting- woman. 

"  You  are  crazy !  Show  her  in,"  added  the  duchess, 
changing  her  voice  to  a  cordially  polite  tone.  Evidently 
she  expected  then  to  be  overheard. 

Augustine  advanced  timidly.  At  the  farther  end  of 
the  cool  boudoir  she  saw  the  duchess  luxuriously  reclin- 
ing on  a  brown-velvet  ottoman  placed  in  the  centre  of  a 
species  of  half-circle  formed  by  folds  of  muslin  draped 
over  a  yellow  ground.  Ornaments  of  gilded  bronze, 
arranged  with  exquisite  taste,  heightened  still  further 
the  effect  of  the  dais  under  which  the  duchess  posed 
like  an  antique  statue.  The  dark  color  of  the  velvet 
enabled  her  to  lose  no  means  of  seduction.  A  soft 
chiaro-scuro,  favorable  to  her  beauty,  seemed  more  a 


80  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

reflection  than  a  light.  A  few  choice  flowers  lifted  their 
fragrant  heads  from  the  Sevres  vases.  As  this  scene 
caught  the  e^'e  of  the  astonished  Augustine  she  came 
forward  so  quickly  and  softly  that  she  surprised  a 
glance  from  the  eyes  of  the  enchantress.  That  glance 
seemed  to  say  to  a  person  whom  at  first  the  painter's 
wife  could  not  see:  ''Wait;  you  shall  see  a  pretty 
woman,  and  help  me  to  put  up  with  a  tiresome  visit." 

As  Augustine  advanced  the  duchess  rose,  and  made 
her  sit  beside  her. 

"  To  what  do  I  owe  the  pleasure  of  this  visit,  ma- 
dame?  **  she  said,  with  a  smile  full  of  charm. 

''Why  so  false?"  thought  Augustine,  who  merely 
bowed  her  head. 

Silence  was  a  necessity ;  for  the  young  woman  now 
saw  a  witness  to  the  interview  in  the  person  of  an 
officer  of  the  army,  —  the  youngest,  and  most  elegant 
and  dashing  of  the  colonels.  His  clothes,  which  were 
those  of  a  civilian,  set  oflT  the  graces  of  his  person. 
His  face,  full  of  life  and  youth  and  very  expressive, 
was  still  further  enlivened  by  small  moustachios,  black 
as  jet  and  waxed  to  a  point,  by  a  well-trimmed  im- 
perial, carefully  combed  whiskers  and  a  forest  of  black 
hair  which  was  somewhat  in  disorder.  He  plaj'ed  with 
a  riding- whip  and  showed  an  ease  and  freedom  of  man- 
ner which  agreed  well  with  the  satisfied  expression  of 
his  face  and  the  elegance  of  his  dress ;  the  ribbons  in 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  81 

lus  buttonhole  were  carelessly  knotted  and  he  seemed 
more  vain  of  his  appearance  than  of  his  courage. 
Augustine  looked  at  the  Duchesse  de  Carigliano,  with 
a  glance  at  the  colonel  in  which  many  prayers  were 
included. 

'*  Well,  adieu,  Monsieur  d'Aiglemont ;  we  shall  meet 
in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,"  said  the  siren,  in  a  tone  as 
if  the  words  were  the  result  of  some  agreement  made 
before  Augustine  entered  the  room ;  she  accompanied 
them  with  a  threatening  glance,  which  the  officer  de- 
served, perhaps,  for  the  undisguised  admiration  with 
which  he  looked  at  the  modest  flower  who  contrasted 
so  admirably  with  the  haughty  duchess.  The  3'oung 
dandy  bowed  in  silence,  turned  on  the  heels  of  his 
boots,  and  gracefully  left  the  room.  At  that  moment 
Augustine,  watching  her  rival  whose  eyes  followed  the 
brilliant  officer,  caught  sight  of  a  sentiment  the  fugitive 
expressions  of  which  are  known  to  ervQvy  woman.  She 
saw  with  bitter  sorrow  that  her  visit  would  be  useless ; 
the  artful  duchess  was  too  eager  for  homage  not  to  have 
a  pitiless  heart. 

"  Madame,"  said  Augustine,  in  a  broken  voice,  "  the 
step  I  now  take  will  seem  very  strange  to  you  ;  but  de- 
spair has  its  madness,  and  that  is  my  excuse.  I  can 
now  understand  only  too  well  why  Theodore  prefers 
your  house  to  mine,  and  how  it  is  that  your  mind 
Bhould  exercise  so  great  an  empire  over  him.     Alas  I 

6 


82  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

I  have  but  to  look  within  myself  to  find  reasons  that 
are  more  than  sufficient.  But  I  adore  my  husband, 
madame.  Two  years  of  sorrow  have  not  changed  the 
love  of  my  heart,  though  I  have  lost  his.  In  my 
madness  I  have  dared  to  believe  that  I  might  struggle 
against  you ;  I  have  come  to  you  to  be  told  by  what 
means  I  can  triumph  over  you.  Oh,  madame !  "  cried 
the  young  woman,  seizing  the  hand  which  her  rival 
allowed  her  to  take,  *'  never  will  I  pray  God  for  my 
own  happiness  with  such  fervor  as  I  will  pray  to  him 
for  yours,  if  you  will  help  me  to  recover,  I  will  not 
say  the  love,  but  the  friendship  of  my  husband.  I  have 
no  longer  any  hope  except  in  j^ou.  Ah !  tell  me  how 
it  is  you  have  won  him,  and  made  him  forget  the  early 
days  of — " 

At  these  words  Augustine,  choking  with  her  sobs, 
was  compelled  to  pause.  Ashamed  of  her  weakness, 
she  covered  her  face  with  a  handkerchief  that  was  wet 
with  tears. 

"Ah,  what  a  child  you  are,  my  dear  little  lady!" 
said  the  duchess,  fascinated  by  the  novelty  of  the 
scene  and  touched  in  spite  of  herself  at  receiving  such 
homage  from  as  perfect  a  virtue  as  there  was  in  Paris, 
taking  the  young  wife's  handkerchief  and  herself  dry- 
ing her  tears  and  soothing  her  with  a  few  murmured 
monosyllables  of  graceful  pity. 

After  a  moment's  silence  the  accomplished  coquette. 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  83 

clasping  poor  Augustine's  pretty  hands  in  her  own, 
which  had  a  rare  character  of  noble  beauty  and  power, 
said,  in  a  gentle  and  even  affectionate  voice  :  * '  My  first 
advice  will  be  not  to  weep  ;  tears  are  unbecoming.  We 
must  learn  how  to  conquer  sorrows  which  make  us  ill, 
lor  love  will  not  stay  long  on  a  bed  of  pain.  Sadness 
may  at  first  bestow  a  certain  charm  which  pleases  a 
man,  but  it  ends  by  sharpening  the  features  and 
fading  the  color  of  the  sweetest  face.  And  remember, 
our  tjTants  have  the  self-love  to  require  that  their 
slaves  shall  be  alwaj'S  gay." 

*'  Ah,  madame  !  is  it  within  my  power  to  cease  feel- 
ing? How  is  it  possible  not  to  die  a  thousand  deaths 
when  we  see  a  face  which  once  shone  for  us  with  love 
and  joy,  now  harsh,  and  cold,  and  indifferent?  No,  I 
cannot  control  my  heart." 

"  So  much  the  worse  for  you,  my  poor  dear.  But  I 
think  I  alread}^  know  yoxxv  history.  In  the  first  place, 
be  verj*-  sure  that  if  your  husband  has  been  unfaithful 
to  you,  I  am  not  his  accomplice.  If  I  made  a  point  of 
attracting  him  to  my  salon,  it  was,  I  freely  confess,  out 
of  vanity ;  he  was  famous,  and  he  went  nowhere.  I 
«jke  you  too  well  already  to  tell  )'0u  all  the  follies  he  has 
committed  for  me.  But  I  shall  reveal  one  of  them  be- 
cause it  may  perhaps  help  us  to  bring  him  back  to  3'ou, 
and  to  punish  him  for  the  audacity  he  has  lately  shown 
in  his  proceedings  toward  me.    He  will  end  by  com- 


84  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

promising  me.  I  know  the  world  too  well,  m3''  dear, 
to  put  myself  at  the  mere}'  of  a  superior  man.  Believe 
me,  it  is  verj^  well  to  let  them  court  us,  but  to  marry 
them  is  a  blunder.  We  women  should  admire  men  of 
genius,  enjoy  them  as  we  would  a  play,  but  live  with 
them  —  never!  No,  no!  it  is  like  going  behind  the 
scenes  and  seeing  the  machinery,  instead  of  sitting  in 
our  boxes  and  enjoying  the  illusions.  But  with  j'ou, 
my  poor  child,  the  harm  is  done,  is  it  not?  Well, 
then,  you  must  try  to  arm  yourself  against  tyrann3%" 

*' Ah,  madame,  as  I  entered  this  house  and  before  I 
saw  you  I  became  aware  of  certain  arts  that  I  never 
suspected." 

*'  Well,  come  and  see  me  sometimes,  and  you  will 
soon  learn  the  science  of  such  trifles,  —  really  impor- 
tant, however,  in  their  effects.  External  things  are  to 
fools  more  than  one  half  of  life ;  and  for  that  reason 
more  than  one  man  of  talent  is  a  fool  in  spite  of  his 
superiority.  I  will  venture  to  lay  a  wager  that  you 
have  never  refused  anything  to  Theodore." 

''  How  can  we  refuse  anything  to  those  we  love?  " 

*'  Poor,  innocent  child !  I  adore  your  folly.  Let  me 
tell  you  that  the  more  we  love  the  less  we  should  let  a 
man,  specially-  a  husband,  see  the  extent  of  our  passion. 
Whoever  loves  the  most  is  certain  to  be  the  one  that  is 
tyrannized  over,  and,  worse  than  all,  deserted  sooner 
or  later.     Whoever  desires  to  reign  must  —  " 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  85 

**  Oh,  madame,  must  we  all  dissimulate,  calculate,  be 
false  at  heart,  make  ourselves  an  artificial  nature,  and 
forever?    Oh,  who  could  live  thus ?    Could  you  —  " 

She  hesitated  ;  the  duchess  smiled. 

*'  M}^  dear,"  resumed  the  great  lad}'  in  a  grave  tone, 
"  conjugal  happiness  has  been  from  time  immemorial  a 
speculation,  a  matter  which  required  particular  study. 
If  you  persist  in  talking  passion  while  I  am  talking 
marriage  we  shall  never  understand  each  other.  Listen 
to  me,"  she  continued,  in  a  confidential  tone.  *'  I  have 
been  in  the  waj^  of  seeing  many  of  the  superior  men  of 
our  day.  Those  of  them  who  married  chose,  with  few 
exceptions,  women  who  were  ciphers.  Well,  those 
women  have  governed  them  just  as  the  Emperor  gov- 
erns us,  and  they  have  been,  if  not  beloved,  at  least 
always  respected  by  them.  I  am  fond  of  secrets, 
especiall}'  those  that  concern  our  sex,  and  to  amuse 
m3'self  I  have  sought  the  kej^  to  that  riddle.  Well, 
my  dear  little  angel,  it  is  this, — those  good  women 
knew  enough  to  analyze  the  characters  of  their  hus- 
bands; without  being  frightened,  as  3*ou  have  been, 
at  their  superiority,  they  have  cleverly  discovered  the 
qualities  those  men  lacked,  and  whether  the}-  them- 
selves had  them  or  only  feigned  to  have  them,  they 
found  means  to  make  such  a  show  of  those  very  qual- 
ities before  the  eyes  of  their  husbands  that  they  ended 
by  mastering  them.     Remember  one  thing  more :  those 


86  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

souls  which  see  in  so  great  all  have  a  little  grain  of  foll^ 
in  them,  and  it  is  our  business  to  make  the  most  of  it. 
If  we  set  our  wills  to  rule  them  and  let  nothing  deter 
us,  but  concentrate  all  our  actions,  our  ideas,  our  fas- 
cinations upon  that,  we  can  master  those  eminently 
capricious  minds, —  for  the  yery  inconstanc}'  of  their 
thoughts  gives  us  the  means  of  influencing  them." 

"Oh!"  cried  the  young  wife,  horror-struck,  "can 
that  be  life  ?    Then  it  is  a  battle  —  " 

"  — in  which  whoso  would  win  must  threaten,"  said 
the  duchess  laughing.  "  Our  power  is  artificial.  Con- 
sequently we  should  never  let  a  man  despise  us ;  we 
can  never  rise  after  such  a  fall  except  through  vile 
manoeuvres.  Come,"  she  added,  "I  will  give  you  the 
means  to  hold  your  husband  in  chains.** 

She  rose,  and  guided  her  young  and  innocent  pupil 
in  conjugal  wiles  through  the  labyrinths  of  her  little 
palace.  They  came  presently  to  a  private  staircase 
which  communicated  with  the  state  apartments.  When 
the  duchess  touched  the  secret  lock  of  the  door  she 
stopped,  looked  at  Augustine  with  an  inimitable  air  of 
wiliness  and  grace,  and  said,  smiling:  "My  dear,  the 
Due  de  Carigliano  adores  me, — well,  he  would  not  dare 
to  enter  this  door  without  my  permission.  Yet  he  is  a 
man  who  has  the  habit  of  command  over  thousands  of 
soldiers.  He  can  face  a  battery,  but  in  my  presence  — 
he  is  afraid." 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  87 

Augustine  sighed.  They  reached  a  noble  gallery, 
where  th^  duchess  led  the  painter's  wife  before  the 
portrait  Theodore  had  once  made  of  Mademoiselle 
Guillaume.     At  sight  of  it  Augustine  uttered  a  cry. 

*'I  knew  it  was  no  longer  in  the  house,"  she  said, 
*' but —-here!" 

''My  dear  child,  I  exacted  it  only  to  see  how  far 
the  folly  of  a  man  of  genius  would  go.  I  intended  to 
return  it  to  you  sooner  or  later ;  for  I  did  not  expect 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  original  standing  before  the 
copy.  I  will  have  the  picture  taken  to  your  carriage 
while  we  finish  our  conversation.  If,  armed  with  that 
talisman,  you  are  not  mistress  of  3'our  husband  during 
the  next  hundred  3'ears,  you  are  not  a  woman  and  you 
deserve  your  fate." 

Augustine  kissed  the  hand  of  the  great  lady,  who 
pressed  her  to  her  heart  with  all  the  more  tenderness 
because  she  was  certain  to  have  forgotten  her  on  the 
morrow.  This  scene  might  have  destroyed  forever 
the  purity  and  candor  of  a  less  virtuous  woman  than 
Augustine,  to  whom  the  secrets  revealed  by  the  duchess 
could  have  been  either  salutary  or  fatal ;  but  the  astute 
policy  of  the  higher  social  spheres  suited  Augustine  as 
little  as  the  narrow  reasoning  of  Joseph  Lebas  or  the 
silly  morality  of  Madame  Guillaume.  Strange  result 
of  the  false  positions  into  which  we  are  thrown  by  the 
even  trivial  mistakes  we  make  in  life  I    Augustine  was 


88  Fame  and  Sorrow. 

like  an  Alpine  herdsman  overtaken  by  an  avalanche ; 
if  he  hesitates,  or  listens  to  the  cries  of  his  comrades, 
he  is  lost  In  these  great  crises  the  heart  either  breaks 
or  hardens. 

Madame  de  Sommervieux  returned  home  a  pre}^  to 
an  agitation  it  is  difficult  to  describe.  Her  conversation 
with  the  duchess  had  roused  a  thousand  contradictory 
ideas  in  her  mind.  Like  the  sheep  of  the  fable,  full  of 
courage  when  the  wolf  was  away,  she  preached  to  her- 
self and  laid  down  admirable  lines  of  conduct ;  she 
imagined  stratagems  of  coquetry;  she  talked  to  her 
husband,  he  being  absent,  with  all  the  resources  of 
that  eloquence  which  never  leaves  a  woman ;  then, 
remembering  the  glance  of  Theodore's  fixed,  light  eyes, 
she  trembled  with  fear.  When  she  asked  if  Monsieur 
were  at  home,  her  voice  failed  her.  Hearing  that  he 
would  not  be  at  home  to  dinner,  she  was  conscious  of 
a  feeling  of  inexplicable  relief.  Like  a  criminal  who 
appeals  against  a  death-sentence,  the  delaj^,  however 
short,  seemed  to  her  a  lifetime. 

She  placed  the  portrait  in  her  bedroom,  and  awaited 
her  husband  in  all  the  agonies  of  hope.  Too  well  she 
knew  that  this  attempt  would  decide  her  whole  future, 
and  she  trembled  at  every  sound,  even  at  the  ticking  of 
her  clock,  which  seemed  to  increase  her  fears  by  mea- 
suring them.  She  tried  to  cheat  time;  the  idea  oc- 
curred to  her  to  dress  in  a  manner  that  made  her  still 


Fame  and  Sorrow.  ^9 

more  like  the  portrait.  Then,  knowing  her  husband's 
uneas}'  nature,  she  caused  her  rooms  to  be  lighted  up 
with  unusual  brilliancy,  certain  that  curiosity  would 
bring  him  to  her  as  soon  as  he  came  in.  Midnight 
sounded,  and  at  the  groom's  cry  the  gates  opened  and 
the  painter's  carriage  rolled  into  the  silent  courtyard. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  illumination?" 
asked  Theodore,  gayly,  as  he  entered  his  wife's  room. 

Augustine  took  advantage  of  so  favorable  a  moment 
and  threw  herself  into  his  arms  as  she  pointed  to  the 
portrait.  The  artist  stood  still ;  immovable  as  a  rock, 
gazing  alternately  at  Augustine  and  at  the  tell-tale  can- 
vas. The  timid  wife,  half-dead  with  fear,  watched  the 
changing  brow,  that  terrible  brow,  and  saw  the  cruel 
wrinkles  gathering  like  clouds ;  then  the  blood  seemed 
to  curdle  in  her  veins  when,  with  a  flaming  eye  and  a 
husky  voice,  he  began  to  question  her. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  picture?" 

"  The  Duchesse  de  Carigliano  returned  it  to  me." 

*'  Did  you  ask  her  for  it?  '* 

"  I  did  not  know  she  had  it." 

The  softness,  or  rather  the  enchanting  melody  of  that 
angel  voice  might  have  turned  the  heart  of  cannibals, 
but  not  that  of  an  artist  in  the  tortures  of  wounded 
vanit3% 

"  It  is  worthy  of  her !  "  cried  the  artist,  in  a  voice  of 
thunder.     *'  I  will  be  revenged  !  "  he  said,  striding  up 


90  Fame  and  Sorrow, 

and  down  the  room.  "  She  shall  die  of  shame ;  I  will 
paint  her,  — yes,  I  will  exhibit  her  in  the  character  of 
Messalina  leaving  Claudius'  palace  by  night." 

*'  Theodore !  "  said  a  faint  voice. 

*  a  will  kill  her  !  " 

"  My  husband  !  " 

"  She  loves  that  little  cavalry  colonel,  because  he 
rides  well ! " 

"Theodore!" 

"  Let  me  alone !  "  said  the  painter  to  his  wife,  in  a 
voice  that  was  almost  a  roar. 

The  scene  is  too  repulsive  to  depict  here ;  the  rage 
of  the  artist  led  him,  before  it  ended,  to  words  and  acts 
which  a  woman  less  j^oung  and  timid  than  Augustine 
would  have  ascribed  to  insanity. 

About  eight  o'clock  on  the  following  morning  Madame 
Guillaume  found  her  daughter  pale,  with  red  eyes  and 
her  hair  in  disorder,  gazing  on  the  fragments  of  a 
painted  canvas  and  the  pieces  of  a  broken  frame  which 
lay  scattered  on  the  floor.  Augustine,  almost  uncon- 
scious with  grief,  pointed  to  the  wreck  with  a  gesture 
of  despair. 

*'  It  is  not  such  a  very  great  loss,"  cried  the  old 
woman.  "  It  was  very  like  you,  that's  true ;  but  I  *m 
told  there  is  a  man  on  the  boulevard  who  paints 
charming  portraits  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  francs." 

"Ah,  mother!" 


Fame  and  Sorrow,  91 

*'  Poor  dear !  well,  yo\x  are  right,*'  answered  Madame 
Guillaume,  mistaking  tlie  meaning  of  the  look  her 
daughter  gave  her;  "there  is  nothing  so  tender  as 
a  mother's  love.  My  dearest,  I  can  guess  it  all ;  tell 
me  3'our  troubles  and  I  '11  comfort  3-ou.  Your  maid  has 
told  me  dreadful  things ;  I  always  said  3'our  husband 
was  a  madman,  —  wh}',  he  *s  a  monster !  " 

Augustine  put  her  finger  on  her  pallid  Hps  as  if  to 
implore  silence.  During  that  terrible  night  sorrow  had 
brought  her  the  patient  resignation  which,  in  mothers 
and  in  loving  women,  surpasses  in  its  effects  all  other 
human  forces,  and  reveals,  perhaps,  the  existence  of 
certain  fibres  in  the  hearts  of  women  which  God  has 
denied  to  those  of  men. 

An  inscription  engraved  on  a  broken  column  in  the 
cemeter}'  of  Montmartre  states  that  Madame  de  Som- 
mervieux  died  at  twenty-seven  years  of  age.  Between 
the  simple  lines  of  her  epitaph  a  friend  of  the  timid 
creature  reads  the  last  scenes  of  a  drama.  Every  3'ear, 
on  the  solemn  second  of  November,  as  he  passes  before 
that  earty  grave  he  never  fails  to  ask  himself  if  stronger 
women  than  Augustine  are  not  needed  for  the  powerful 
clasp  of  genius. 

*'  The  modest,  humble  flower,  blooming  in  the  valley 
dies,"  he  thought,  **  if  transplanted  nearer  to  heaven, 
to  the  regions  where  the  storms  gather  and  the  sun 
wilts." 


COLONEL  CHABERT. 


To  Madame  la  Comtesse  Ida  de  Bocaem^ 

NEE    DU    ChASTELER. 


*'  There  's  our  old  top-coat  again  !  " 

This  exclamation  came  from  the  lips  of  a  clerk  of  the 
species  called  in  Parisian  law-offices  ''  gutter-jumpers," 
who  was  at  the  moment  munching  with  a  very  good 
appetite  a  slice  of  bread.  He  took  a  little  of  the  crumb 
and  made  a  pellet,  which  he  flung,  with  a  laugh,  through 
the  blinds  of  the  window  against  which  he  was  leaning. 
Well-aimed,  the  pellet  rebounded  nearly  to  the  height 
of  the  window  after  hitting  the  hat  of  a  stranger  who 
was  crossing  the  courtyard  of  a  house  in  the  rue  Vivi- 
enne,  where  Maitre  Derville,  the  lawyer,  resided. 

"  Come,  come,  Simonnin,  don't  play  tricks,  or  I  '11 
turn  you  off.  No  matter  how  poor  a  client  may  be,  he 
is  a  man,  the  devil  take  you  1 "  said  the  head-clerk, 
pausing  as  he  added  up  a  bill  of  costs. 


94  Colonel  ChaherU 

The  gutter-jumper  is  usually,  like  Simonnin,  a  lad 
of  thirteen  or  fourteen  years  of  age,  who  in  all  law- 
offices  is  under  the  particular  supervision  of  the  head- 
clerk,  whose  errands  he  does,  and  whose  love-letters 
he  carries,  together  with  the  writs  of  the  courts  and  the 
petitions  entered.  He  belongs  to  the  gamin  de  Paris 
through  his  ethics,  and  to  the  pettifogging  side  of  law 
through  fate.  The  lad  is  usually  pitiless,  undisciplined, 
totally  without  reverence,  a  scoffer,  a  writer  of  epi- 
grams, lazy,  and  also  greedy.  Nevertheless,  all  such 
little  fellows  have  an  old  mother  living  on  some  fifth 
story,  with  whom  they  share  the  thirty  or  forty  francs 
the}'^  earn  monthly." 

''  If  it  is  a  man,  why  do  you  call  him  an  '  old  top- 
coat,' "  said  Simonnin,  in  the  tone  of  a  scholar  who 
detects  his  master  in  a  mistake. 

Thereupon  he  returned  to  the  munching  of  his  bread 
with  a  bit  of  cheese,  leaning  his  shoulder  against  the 
window-frame ;  for  he  took  his  rest  standing,  like  the 
horses  of  the  hackney-coaches,  with  one  leg  raised  and 
supported  against  the  other. 

*'  Couldn't  we  play  that  old  gu}^  some  trick?"  said 
the  third  clerk,  Godeschal,  in  a  low  voice,  stopping  in 
the  middle  of  a  legal  document  he  was  dictating  to  be 
engrossed  by  the  fourth  clerk  and  copied  by  two  neo- 
phj^tes  from  the  provinces.  Having  made  the  above 
suggestion,  he  went  on  with  his  dictation:  "•  Miit  in 


Colonel  Chabert,  95 

his  gracious  and  benevolent  wisdom  His  Majesty 
Louis  the  Eighteenth^  —  Write  all  the  letters,  hi, 
there  !  Desroches  the  learned !  —  so  soon  as  he  re- 
covered the  reiiis  of  power  ^  understood —  What  did 
that  fat  joker  understand,  I'd  like  to  know  ? —  the 
high  mission  to  which  Divine  Providence  had  called 

him! Put  an  exclamation  mark  and  six 

dots ;  they  are  pious  enough  at  the  Palais  to  let  'em 
pass  —  and  his  first  thought  was.,  as  is  proved  by  the 
date  of  the  ordinance  herein  named.,  to  repair  evils 
caused  by  the  frightful  and  lamentable  disasters  of 
the  revolutionary  period  by  restoring  to  his  faithful 
and  numerous  adherents  —  '  Numerous '  is  a  bit  of 
flattery  which  ought  to  please  the  court  —  all  their 
unsold  property  wheresoever  situate^  whether  in  the 
'public  domain  or  the  ordinary  and  extraordinary 
crown  domains.,  or  in  the  endowments  of  public  in- 
stitutions  /  for  we  contend  and  hold  ourselves  able  to 
maintain  that  such  is  the  spirit  and  the  meaning  of 
the  gracious  ordinance.,  rendered  in  —  " 

'*  Stop,  stop,"  said  Godeschal  to  the  three  clerks ; 
"that  rascally  sentence  has  come  to  the  end  of  my 
paper  and  is  n't  done  yet.  Well,"  he  added,  stopping 
to  wet  the  back  of  the  cahier  with  his  tongue  to  turn  the 
thick  page  of  his  stamped  paper,  "  if  you  want  to  play 
the  old  top-coat  a  trick  tell  him  that  the  master  is  so 
busy  he  can  talk  to  clients  only  between  two  and  three 


96  Colonel  Ckabert. 

o'clock  in  the  morning ;  we  '11  see  if  he  comes  then,  the 
old  villain  ! "  and  Godeschal  returned  to  his  dictation  : 
"  g7'acious  ordinance  rendered  in  —  Have  you  got 
that  down?" 

*'  Yes,"  cried  the  three  copyists. 

''  Rendered  in  —  Hi,  papa  Boucard,  what 's  the  date 
of  that  ordinance  ?  Dot  your  i's,  unam  et  omnes  — 
it  fills  up." 

**  Omnes"  repeated  one  of  the  clerks  before  Bou- 
card, the  head-clerk,  could  answer. 

''  Good  heavens !  you  have  n't  written  that,  have 
you?"  cried  Godeschal,  looking  at  the  provincial  new- 
comer with  a  truculent  air. 

*'Yes,  he  has,"  said  Desroches,  the  fourth  clerk, 
leaning  over  to  look  at  his  neighbor's  cop}^,  ''he  has 
written,  ''  Dot  your  i's,  and  he  spells  it  e-j'-e-s." 

All  the  clei-ks  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter. 

*'  Do  you  call  that  a  law-term.  Monsieur  Hure  ?  "  cried 
Simonnin,  ''  and  3'ou  say  you  come  from  Mortagne  !  " 

''  Scratch  it  out  carefully,"  said  the  head-clerk.  ''  If 
one  of  the  judges  were  to  get  hold  of  the  petition  and 
see  that,  the  master  would  never  hear  the  last  of  it. 
Come,  no  more  such  blunders.  Monsieur  Hure  ;  a  Nor- 
man ought  to  know  better  than  to  write  a  petition  care- 
lessly ;  it's  the  '  Shoulder-arms  ! '  of  the  legal  guild." 

Rendered  in  —  in  — "  went  on  Godeschal.  *'  Do 
tell  me  when,  Boucard?" 


Colonel  Chahert.  97 

**  June,  1814,"  replied  the  head-clerk,  without  raising 
his  head  from  his  work. 

A  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  the  next  sentence  of 
the  prolix  petition.  Five  grinning  clerks,  with  lively, 
satirical  eyes  and  curly  heads,  turned  their  noses  to- 
wards the  door,  having  all  shouted  with  one  voice, 
**  Come  in ! "  Boucard  remained  with  his  head  buried 
in  a  mound  of  deeds,  and  went  on  making  out  the  bill 
of  costs  on  which  he  was  employed. 

The  office  was  a  large  room,  furnished  with  the  clas- 
sic stove  that  adorns  all  other  pettifogging  precincts. 
The  pipes  went  diagonally  across  the  room  and  entered 
the  chimne}',  on  the  marble  mantel-shelf  of  which  were 
diverse  bits  of  bread,  triangles  of  Brie  cheese,  fresh 
pork-chops,  glasses,  bottles,  and  a  cup  of  chocolate  for 
the  head-clerk.  The  smell  of  these  comestibles  amalga- 
mated so  well  with  the  offensive  odor  of  the  over-heated 
stove  and  the  peculiar  exhalations  of  desks  and  papers 
that  the  stench  of  a  fox  would  hardly  have  been  per- 
ceived. The  floor  was  covered  with  mud  and  snow 
brought  in  by  the  clerks.  Near  the  window  stood  the 
rolling-top  desk  of  the  head-clerk,  and  next  to  it  the 
little  table  of  the  second  clerk.  The  latter  was  now  on 
duty  in  the  courts,  where  he  usually  went  between  eight 
and  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  sole  decorations 
of  the  office  were  the  well-known  large  yellow  posters 
which  announce  attachments  on  property,  mortgagee- 

7 


98  Colonel  Chabert. 

sales,  litigations  between  guardians  and  minors,  and 
auctions,  final  or  postponed,  the  glory  of  legal  offices. 

Behind  the  head-clerk,  and  covering  the  wall  from 
top  to  bottom,  was  a  case  with  an  enormous  number  of 
pigeon-holes,  each  stuffed  with  bundles  of  papers,  from 
which  hung  innumerable  tags  and  those  bits  of  red 
tape  which  give  special  character  to  legal  documents. 
The  lower  shelves  of  the  case  were  filled  with  paste- 
board boxes,  yellowed  by  time  and  edged  with  blue 
paper,  on  which  could  be  read  the  names  of  the  more 
distinguished  clients  whose  affairs  were  cooking  at  the 
present  time.  The  dirty  window-panes  let  in  but  a 
small  amount  of  light ;  besides,  in  the  month  of  Feb- 
ruary there  are  very  few  law-offices  in  Paris  where  the 
clerks  can  write  without  a  lamp  before  ten  o'clock  in  the 
day.  Such  offices  are  invariabl}^  neglected,  and  for 
the  reason  that  while  everj'  one  goes  there  nobody 
staj's ;  no  personal  interest  attaches  to  so  mean  a 
spot ;  neither  the  lawyers,  nor  the  clients,  nor  the 
clerks,  care  for  the  appearance  of  the  place  which  is 
to  the  latter  a  school,  to  the  clients  a  means,  to  the 
master  a  laboratory.  The  greasy  furniture  is  trans- 
mitted from  lawyer  to  lawyer  with  such  scrupulous  ex- 
actness that  certain  offices  still  possess  boxes  of  "  resi- 
dues," parchments  engrossed  in  black-letter,  and  bags, 
which  have  descended  from  the  solicitors  of  the  "  Chlet,** 
an  abbreviation  of  the  word  *'  Chatelet,"  an  institution 


Colonel  Chabert.  99 

which  represented  under  the  old  order  of  things  what  a 
court  of  common  pleas  is  in  our  day. 

This  dark  office,  choked  with  dust  and*  dirt,  was  there- 
fore, like  all  such  offices,  repulsive  to  clients,  and  one 
of  the  ugly  monstrosities  of  Paris.  Certainly,  if  the 
damp  sacristies  where  prayers  are  weighed  and  paid 
for  like  spices,  if  the  second-hand  shops,  where  flutter 
rags  which  blight  the  illusions  of  life  by  revealing  to  us 
the  end  of  our  festive  arrays,  if  these  two  sewers  of 
poesy  did  not  exist,  a  law3^er's  office  would  be  the  most 
horrible  of  all  social  dens.  But  the  same  characteristic 
may  be  seen  in  gambling-houses,  in  court-rooms,  in  the 
letter}'  bureaus,  and  in  evil  resorts.  Wh}'?  Perhaps 
because  the  drama  played  in  such  places  within  the 
soul  renders  men  indifferent  to  externals,  —  a  thought 
which  likewise  explains  the  simplicity  of  great  thinkers 
and  men  of  great  ambitions. 

"  Where  *s  m}^  penknife?** 

**  I  shall  eat  my  breakfast." 

"  Look  out !  there  *s  a  blot  on  the  petition." 

*'  Hush,  gentlemen  !  " 

These  various  exclamations  went  off  all  at  once  Just 
«j.s  the  old  client  entered  and  closed  the  door,  with  the 
sort  of  humility  which  gives  an  unnatural  air  to  the 
movements  of  a  poverty-stricken  man.  The  stranger 
tried  to  smile,  but  the  muscles  of  his  face  relaxed 
when  he  had   vainly  looked  for  symptoms  of  civility 


100  Colonel  Chabert. 

on  the  inexorably  indifferent  faces  of  the  six  clerks. 
Accustomed,  no  doubt,  to  judge  men,  he  addressed 
himself  politely  to  the  gutter-jumper,  hoping  that  the 
office  drudge  might  answer  him  civilly :  — 

*'  Monsieur,  can  I  see  3'our  master?" 

The  mischievous  youngster  replied  by  tapping  his 
ear  with  the  fingers  of  his  left  hand,  as  much  as  to 
say,  ''I  am  deaf." 

*'  What  is  it  you  want,  monsieur?  "  asked  Godeschal 
swallowing  an  enormous  mouthful  as  he  asked  the 
question,  —  brandishing  his  knife  and  crossing  his  legs 
till  the  foot  of  the  upper  one  came  on  a  line  with  his 
nose. 

*'I  have  called  five  times,  monsieur,"  replied  the 
visitor;  '*I  wish  to  speak  to  Monsieur  Derville." 

''On  business?" 

*'  Yes  ;  but  I  can  explain  my  business  only  to  him.** 

"He's  asleep;  if  you  wish  to  consult  him  j-ou'll 
have  to  come  at  night ;  he  never  gets  to  work  before 
midnight.  But  if  you  wnll  explain  the  matter  to  us  we 
can  perhaps  do  as  well  — " 

The  stranger  was  impassive.  He  looked  humbty 
about  him  like  a  dog  slipping  into  a  strange  kitchen 
and  afraid  of  kicks.  Thanks  to  their  general  condi- 
tion, law- clerks  are  not  afraid  of  thieves ;  so  they  felt 
no  suspicion  of  the  top-coat,  but  allowed  him  to  look 
round  in  search  of  a  seat,  for  he  was  evidently  fatigued. 


Colonel  Chabert  :  l&l; 

It  is  a  matter  of  calculation  with  lawj-ers  to  have  few 
chairs  in  their  offices.  The  common  client,  weary  of 
standing,  goes  away  grumbling. 

''  Monsieur,"  replied  the  stranger,  **  I  have  already 
had  the  honor  of  telling  you  that  I  can  explain  my 
business  to  no  one  but  Monsieur  Derville.  I  will  wait 
until  he  is  up." 

Boucard  had  now  finished  his  accounts.  He  smelt 
the  fumes  of  his  chocolate,  left  his  cane  chair,  came  up 
to  the  chimney,  looked  the  old  man  over  from  head  to 
foot»  gazed  at  the  top-coat  and  made  an  indescribable 
grimace.  He  probably  thought  that  no  matter  how 
long  the)'  kept  this  client  on  the  rack  not  a  penny 
could  be  got  out  of  him ;  and  he  now  interposed, 
meaning  with  a  few  curt  words  to  rid  the  office  of  an 
unprofitable  client. 

*'  They  tell  you  the  truth,  monsieur,"  he  said ;  *'  Mon- 
sieur Derville  works  only  at  night.  If  your  business  is 
important  I  advise  you  to  come  back  here  at  one  or  two 
in  the  morning." 

The  client  looked  at  the  head-clerk  with  a  stupid  air, 
and  remained  for  an  instant  motionless.  Accustomed 
to  see  many  changes  of  countenance,  and  many  sin- 
gular expressions  produced  by  the  hesitation  and  the 
dreaminess  which  characterize  persons  who  go  to  law, 
the  clerks  took  no  notice  of  the  old  man,  but  continued 
to  eat  their  breakfasts  with  as  much  noise  of  their  jaws 
as  if  they  were  horses  at  a  manger. 


iM'  Colonel  Chahert. 

*'  Monsieur,  I  shall  return  to-night,"  said  the  visi- 
tor, who,  with  the  tenacity  of  an  unhappy  man,  was 
determined  to  put  his  tormentors  in  the  wrong. 

The  only  retaliation  granted  to  poverty  is  that  of 
forcing  justice  and  benevolence  to  unjust  refusals. 
When  unhapp}^  souls  have  convicted  society  of  false- 
hood then  they  fling  themselves  the  more  ardentlj^ 
upon  the  bosom  of  God. 

''Did  3'ou  ever  see  such  a  skull?"  cried  Simonnin, 
without  waiting  till  the  door  had  closed  on  the  old 
man. 

''He  looks  as  if  he  had  been  buried  and  dug  up 
again,"  said  one. 

"He's  some  colonel  who  wants  his  back-pay,"  said 
the  head-clerk. 

"  No,  he*s  an  old  porter." 

' '  Who  '11  bet  he 's  a  nobleman  ?  "  cried  Boucard. 

"I'll  bet  he  has  been  a  porter,"  said  Godeschal. 
*'  None  but  porters  are  gifted  by  nature  with  top- coats 
as  greasy  and  ragged  round  the  bottom  as  that  old 
fellow's.  Didn't  you  notice  his  cracked  boots  which 
let  in  water,  and  that  cravat  in  place  of  a  shirt  ?  That 
man  slept  last  night  under  a  bridge." 

"  He  may  be  a  nobleman  and  have  burnt  his  candle 
at  both  ends,  —  that 's  nothing  new !  "  cried  Desroches. 

"  No,"  replied  Boucard,  in  the  midst  of  much  laughter, 
"I  maintain  he  was  a  brewer  in  1789  and  a  colonel 
under  the  Republic." 


Colonel  Chahert,  103 

"  Ha !  I  *ll  bet  tickets  for  a  play  all  round  that  he 
never  was  a  soldier,"  said  Godeschal. 

*'  Done,"  said  Boucard. 

**  Monsieur,  monsieur!"  called  the  gutter-jumper, 
opening  the  window. 

*'  What  are  you  doing,  Simonnin?"  asked  Boucard. 

'*  I  'm  calling  him  back  to  know  if  he  is  a  colonel  or 
a  porter,  —  he  ought  to  know,  himself." 

''  What  shall  we  say  to  him?"  exclaimed  Godeschal. 

*'  Leave  it  to  me,"  said  Boucard. 

The  poor  man  re-entered  timidl^^  with  his  eyes  low- 
ered, perhaps  not  to  show  his  hunger  by  looking  too 
eagerly  at  the  food. 

**  Monsieui',"  said  Boucard,  **  will  you  have  the  kind- 
ness to  give  us  your  name,  so  that  Monsieur  Derville 
may  —  " 

*'Chabert." 

**The  colonel  who  was  killed  at  Eylau?"  asked 
Hure,  who  had  not  yet  spoken,  but  was  anxious  to 
get  in  his  joke  like  the  rest. 

*'The  same,  monsieur,"  answered  the  old  man,  with 
classic  simplicity.    Then  he  left  the  room. 

"  Thunder  r' 

'»Sold!" 

"Puff!" 

"OhI- 


104  Colonel  Chabert, 

''Bourn!" 

*'The  old  oddity!" 

''Done  for!" 

"  Monsieur  Desroches,  you  and  I  will  go  to  the  the- 
atre for  nothing !  "  cried  Hure  to  the  fourth  clerk,  with 
a  rap  on  the  shoulders  fit  to  have  killed  a  rhinoceros. 

Then  followed  a  chorus  of  shouts,  laughs,  and  excla- 
mations, to  describe  which  we  should  have  to  use  all 
the  onomatopoeias  of  the  language. 

"  Which  theatre  shall  we  choose?" 

"  The  Opera,"  said  the  head-clerk. 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  Godeschal,  "I  never  said 
theatre  at  all.  I  can  take  you,  if  I  choose,  to  Madame 
Saqui." 

"  Madame  Saqui  is  not  a  play,"  said  Desroches. 

"What's  a  play?"  retorted  Godeschal.  "Let's 
first  establish  the  fact.  What  did  I  bet,  gentlemen  ?  tick- 
ets for  a  pla3^    What 's  a  play  ?  a  thing  we  go  to  see  —  " 

"  If  that 's  so,  you  can  take  us  to  see  the  water  run- 
ning under  the  Pont  Neuf,"  interrupted  Simonnin. 

"  —  see  for  money,"  went  on  Godeschal. 

"But  3^ou  can  see  a  great  many  things  for  money 
that  are  not  plays.  The  definition  is  not  exact,"  said 
Desroches. 

"  But  just  listen  to  me  —  " 

"You  are  talking  nonsense,  my  dear  fellow,"  said 
Boucard. 


Colonel   Chahert,  105 

**  Do  you  call  Curtius  a  play  ?  "  asked  Godeschal. 

*'No,"  said  the  head-clerk,  "I  call  it  a  gallery  of 
wax  figures." 

*'  I'll  bet  a  hundred  francs  to  a  sou,"  retorted  Godes- 
chal, "  that  Curtius's  gallery  constitutes  a  collection  of 
things  which  may  legally  be  called  a  play.  They  com- 
bine into  one  thing  which  can  be  seen  at  different  prices 
according  to  the  seats  3'ou  occup}^  —  " 

^'  You  can't  get  out  of  it !  "  said  Simonnin. 

''  Take  care  I  don't  box  your  ears !  "  said  Godeschal. 

The  clerks  all  shrugged  their  shoulders. 

**  Besides,  we  don't  know  that  that  old  baboon  wasn't 
making  fun  of  us,"  he  continued,  changing  his  argu- 
ment amid  roars  of  laughter.  ''The  fact  is.  Colonel 
Chabert  is  as  dead  as  a  door-nail ;  his  widow  married 
Comte  Ferraud,  councillor  of  state.  Madame  Ferraud 
is  one  of  our  cHents." 

**  The  cause  stands  over  for  to-morrow,"  said  Bou- 
card.  *'  Come,  get  to  work,  gentlemen.  Heavens  and 
earth  !  nothing  ever  gets  done  here.  Finish  with  that 
petition,  —  it  has  to  be  sent  in  before  the  session  of  the 
fourth  court  which  meets  to-day.     Come,  to  work  !  " 

"If  it  was  really  Colonel  Chabert,  would  n't  he  have 
kicked  that  little  Simonnin  when  he  pretended  to  be 
deaf  ? "  said  the  provincial  Hure,  considering  that  ob- 
servation quite  as  conclusive  as  those  of  Godeschal. 

'' Nothing  is  decided," said  Boucard.    "Let  us  agree 


106  Colonel  Chahert, 

to  accept  the  second  tier  of  boxes  at  the  Fran5ais  and 
see  Talma  in  Nero.     Simonnin  can  sit  in  the  pit." 

Thereupon  the  head-clerk  sat  down  at  his  desk,  and 
the  others  followed  his  example. 

"  Rendered  June  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and 
fourteen —  Write  it  in  letters,  mind,"  said  Godeschal. 
"  Have  you  written  it?  " 

''  Yes,"  replied  the  copyists  and  the  engrosser,  whose 
pens  began  to  squeak  along  the  stamped  paper  with  a 
noise,  well  known  in  all  law-offices,  like  that  of  scores 
of  cockchafers  tied  by  schoolboys  in  a  paper  bag. 

*'  And  we  pray  that  the  gentlemen  of  this  tribunal — 
Hold  on !  let  me  read  that  sentence  over  to  myself;  I 
don't  know  what  I  'm  about." 

''Forty-six  —  should  think  that  often  happened  — 
and  three,  forty-nine,"  said  Boucard. 

"  We  pray  ^'^  resumed  Godeschal,  having  re-read  his 
clause,  ' '  that  the  gentlemen  of  this  tribunal  will  not 
show  less  magna?iimity  than  the  august  author  of  the 
ordinance,  and  that  they  will  deny  the  miserable  pre- 
tensions of  the  administration  of  the  grand  chancellor 
of  the  Legion  of  honor  by  determining  the  jurispru- 
dence of  this  matter  in  the  broad  sense  in  which  we  have 
established  it  h&re  —  " 

"Monsieur  Godeschal,  don't  you  want  a  glass  of 
water?"  said  the  gutter-jumper. 

"  That  imp  of  a  Simonnin !  "  said  Boucard.     "  Come 


Colonel  Chabert.  107 

here,  saddle  your  double-soled  horses,  and  take  this 
package  and  skip  over  to  the  Invalides." 

''^  Which  we  have  established  it  here  — "  went  on 
Godeschal.  "Did  you  get  to  that?  Well,  then  add 
in  the  interests  of  Madame  (full  length)  la  Vicomtesse 
de  Grandlieu  —  " 

**  What's  that?"  cried  the  head  clerk,  '*  the  idea  of 
petitioning  in  that  affair!  Vicomtesse  de  Grandlieu 
against  the  Legion  of  honor !  Ah !  you  must  be  a 
fool !  Have  the  goodness  to  put  awa^'  3'our  copies  and 
your  minute,  —  they  '11  answer  far  the  Navarreins  affair 
against  the  monasteries.  It 's  late,  and  I  must  be  off 
with  the  other  petitions ;  I  'U  attend  to  that  m3self  at 
the  Palais." 

Towards  one  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  individual 
calling  himself  Colonel  Chabert  knocked  at  the  door  of 
Maitre  Derville,  solicitor  in  the  court  of  common  pleas 
for  the  department  of  the  Seine.  The  porter  told  him 
that  Monsieur  Derville  had  not  yet  come  in.  The  old 
man  declared  he  had  an  appointment  and  passed  up  to 
the  rooms  of  the  celebrated  lawyer,  who,  young  as  he 
was,  was  even  then  considered  one  of  the  best  legal 
heads  in  France.  Having  rung  and  been  admitted,  the 
persistent  client  was  not  a  little  astonished  to  find  the 
head-clerk  laying  out  on  a  table  in  the  dining-room  a 
number  of  documents  relating  to  affairs  which  were  to 
come  up  on  the  morrow.    The  clerk,  not  less  astonished 


108  Colonel  Chdbert. 

at  the  apparition  of  the  old  man,  bowed  to  the  colonel 
and  asked  him  to  sit  down,  which  he  did. 

*'Upon  my  word,  monsieur,  I  thought  you  were 
joking  when  you  named  such  a  singular  hour  for  a 
consultation,"  said  the  old  man,  with  the  factitious 
liveliness  of  a  ruined  man  who  tries  to  smile. 

*'  The  clerks  were  joking  and  telling  the  truth  also," 
said  the  head-clerk,  going  on  with  his  work.  **  Mon- 
sieur Derville  selects  this  hour  to  examine  his  causes, 
give  directions  for  the  suits,  and  plan  his  defences. 
His  extraordinary  intellect  works  freer  at  this  hour, 
the  only  one  in  which  he  can  get  the  silence  and  tran- 
quillity he  requires  to  evolve  his  ideas.  You  are  the 
third  person  only  who  has  been  admitted  here  for  a 
consultation  at  this  time  of  night.  After  Monsieur 
Derville  comes  in  he  will  talk  over  each  affair,  read 
everything  connected  with  it,  and  spend  perhaps  five 
or  six  hours  at  his  work ;  then  he  rings  for  me,  and 
explains  his  intentions.  In  the  morning,  from  ten  to 
two,  he  listens  to  his  clients ;  the  rest  of  the  day  he 
passes  in  visiting.  In  the  evening  he  goes  about  in 
society  to  keep  up  his  relations  with  the  great  world. 
He  has  no  other  time  than  at  night  to  delve  into  his 
cases,  rummage  the  arsenals  of  the  Code,  make  his 
plans  of  campaign.  He  is  determined,  out  of  love  for 
his  profession,  not  to  lose  a  single  case.  And  for  that 
reason  he  won't  take  all  that  are  brought  to  him,  as 


Colonel  Chahert.  109 

other  lawyers  do.     That 's  his  life  ;  it 's  extraordinarily 
active.     He  makes  a  lot  of  money." 

The  old  man  was  silent  as  he  listened  to  this  explana- 
tion, and  his  singular  face  assumed  a  look  so  devoid  of 
all  intelligence  that  the  clerk  after  glancing  at  him  once 
or  twice  took  no  further  notice  of  him.  A  few  moments 
later  Derville  arrived,  in  evening  dress ;  his  head-clerk 
opened  the  door  to  him  and  then  went  back  to  the 
papers.  The  30ung  lawyer  looked  amazed  when  he 
saw  in  the  dim  light  the  strange  client  who  awaited  him. 
Colonel  Chabert  was  as  motionless  as  the  wax  figures 
of  Curtius's  gallery  where  Godeschal  proposed  to  take 
his  comrades.  This  immovability  might  have  been  less 
noticeable  than  it  was,  if  it  had  not,  as  it  were,  com- 
pleted the  supernatural  impression  conveyed  by  the 
whole  appearance  of  the  man.  The  old  soldier  was 
lean  and  shrunken.  The  concealment  of  his  forehead, 
which  was  carefully  hidden  beneath  a  wig  brushed 
smoothly  over  it,  gave  a  mysterious  expression  to  his 
person.  The  eyes  seemed  covered  with  a  film ;  3'ou 
might  have  thought  them  bits  of  dirty  mother-of-pearl, 
their  bluish  reflections  quivering  in  the  candle-light. 
The  pale,  livid,  hatchet  face,  if  I  may  borrow  that 
term,  seemed  dead.  An  old  black-silk  stock  was  fas- 
tened round  the  neck.  The  shadow  of  the  room  hid 
the  body  so  effectually  below  the  dark  line  of  the  ragged 
article  that  a  man  of  vivid  imagination  might  have 


110  Colonel  Chdbert. 

taken  that  old  head  for  a  sketch  drawn  at  random  on 
the  wall  or  for  a  portrait  by  Eembrandt  without  its 
frame.  The  brim  of  the  hat  worn  by  the  strange  old 
man  cast  a  black  line  across  the  upper  part  of  his  face. 
This  odd  effect,  though  perfectly  natural,  brought  out 
in  abrupt  contrast  the  white  wrinkles,  the  stiffened 
lines,  the  unnatural  hue  of  that  cadaverous  counte- 
nance. The  absence  of  all  motion  in  the  bod}^,  all 
warmth  in  the  glance,  combined  with  a  certain  ex- 
pression of  mental  alienation,  and  with  the  degrading 
sj^mptoms  which  characterize  idioc}^,  to  give  that  face  a 
nameless  horror  which  no  words  can  describe. 

But  an  observer,  and  especially  a  law3^er,  would  have 
seen  in  that  blasted  man  the  signs  of  some  deep  an- 
guish, indications  of  a  misery  that  degraded  that  face 
as  the  drops  of  rain  falling  from  the  heavens  on  pure 
marble  gradually  disfigure  it.  A  doctor,  an  author,  a 
magistrate  would  have  felt  intuitively  a  whole  drama  as 
they  looked  at  this  sublime  wreck,  whose  least  merit 
was  a  resemblance  to  those  fantastic  sketches  drawn  by 
artists  on  the  margins  of  their  lithographic  stones  as 
they  sit  conversing  with  their  friends. 

When  the  stranger  saw  the  law^'er  he  shuddered  with 
the  convulsive  movement  which  seizes  a  poet  when  a 
sudden  noise  recalls  him  from  some  fecund  revery 
amid  the  silence  of  the  night.  The  old  man  rose 
quickly  and  took  off  his  hat  to  the  young  lawyer.    The 


Colonel  ChaheH,  111 

leather  that  lined  it  was  no  doubt  damp  with  grease,  for 
his  wig  stuck  to  it  without  his  knowledge  and  exposed 
his  skull,  horribly  mutilated  and  disfigured  by  a  scar 
running  from  the  crown  of  his  head  to  the  angle  of  his 
right  eye  and  forming  a  raised  welt.  The  sudden  re- 
moval of  that  dirtj^  wig,  worn  by  the  poor  soul  to  con- 
ceal his  wound,  caused  no  desire  to  laugh  in  the  minds 
of  the  two  young  men ;  so  awful  was  the  sight  of  that 
skull.  '*  The  mind  fled  through  it!"  was  the  first 
thought  suggested  to  them  as  they  saw  that  wound. 

**  If  he  is  not  Colonel  Chabert  he  is  some  bold 
trooper,"  thought  Boucard. 

*'  Monsieur,"  said  Derville,  *'  to  whom  have  I  the 
honor  of  speaking?" 

''To  Colonel  Chabert." 

"Which  one?" 

"  The  one  who  was  killed  at  Eylau,"  replied  the  old 
man. 

Hearing  those  extraordinary  words  the  clerk  and  the 
law3^er  looked  at  each  other  as  if  to  say,  "He  is 
mad." 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  colonel,  "I  desire  to  confide 
my  secrets  to  you  in  private." 

The  intrepidit}^  which  characterizes  lawyers  is  worthy 
of  remark.  Whether  from  their  habit  of  receiving 
great  numbers  of  persons,  whether  from  an  abiding 
sense  of  the  protection  of  the  law,   or  from   perfect 


112  Colonel  Chdbert. 

confidence  in  their  ministry,  certain  it  is  they  go 
everj' where  and  take  all  risks,  like  priests  and  doc- 
tors. Derville  made  a  sign  to  Boiicard,  who  left  the 
room. 

"  Monsieur,**  said  the  lawyer,  *'  during  the  day  I  am 
not  very  chary  of  my  time ;  but  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  every  moment  is  precious  to  me.  Therefore,  be 
brief  and  concise.  Tell  your  facts  without  digression  ; 
I  will  ask  you  any  explanations  I  may  find  necessary. 
Go  on.*' 

Bidding  his  strange  client  be  seated,  the  3'oung  man 
sat  down  before  the  table,  and  while  listening  to  the  tale 
of  the  late  colonel  he  turned  over  the  pages  of  a  brief. 

*'  Monsieur,"  said  the  deceased,  "  perhaps  yon  know 
that  I  commanded  a  regiment  of  cavahy  at  Eylau.  I 
was  the  chief  cause  of  the  success  of  Murat's  famous 
charge  which  won  the  day.  Unhappil}'  for  me,  my 
death  is  given  as  an  historic  fact  in  '  Victories  and 
Conquests*  where  all  the  particulars  are  related.  We 
cut  the  three  Russian  lines  in  two ;  then  they  closed  be- 
hind us  and  we  were  obliged  to  cut  our  way  back  again. 
Just  before  we  reached  the  Emperor,  having  dispersed 
the  Russians,  a  troop  of  the  enemy's  cavalry  met  us.  I 
flung  myself  upon  them.  Two  Russian  officers,  actual 
giants,  attacked  me  together.  One  of  them  cut  me 
over  the  head  with  his  sabre,  which  went  through  every- 
thing, even  to  the  silk  cap  which  I  wore,  and  laid  my 


Colonel  Chahert,  113 

skull  open.  I  fell  from  my  horse.  Murat  came  up 
to  support  us,  and  he  and  his  whole  party,  fifteen  hun- 
dred men,  rode  over  me.  They  reported  my  death  to 
the  Emperor,  who  sent  (for  he  loved  me  a  little,  the  mas- 
ter !)  to  see  if  there  were  no  hope  of  saving  a  man  to 
whom  he  owed  the  vigor  of  our  attack.  He  despatched 
two  surgeons  to  find  me  and  bring  me  in  to  the  ambu- 
lances, sa3  ing  —  perhaps  too  hurriedl^^,  for  he  had  work 
to  attend  to  —  'Go  and  see  if  my  poor  Chabert  is  still 
living.'  Those  cursed  saw-bones  had  just  seen  m^e 
trampled  under  the  hoofs  of  two  regiments ;  no  doubt 
they  never  took  the  trouble  to  feel  my  pulse,  but  re- 
ported me  as  dead.  The  certificate  of  my  death  was 
doubtless  drawn  up  in  due  form  of  military  law." 

Graduall}',  as  he  listened  to  his  client,  who  expressed 
himself  with  perfect  clearness,  and  related  facts  that 
were  quite  possible,  though  somewhat  strange,  the 
young  law3^er  pushed  away  his  papers,  rested  his  left 
elbow  on  the  table,  put  his  head  on  his  hand,  and 
looked  fixedly  at  the  colonel. 

"Are  you  aware,  monsieur,"  he  said,  ''that  I  am 
the  solicitor  of  the  Countess  Ferraud,  widow  of  Colonel 
Chabert?" 

"  Of  my  wife?  Yes,  monsieur.  And  therefore,  after 
many  fruitless  efforts  to  obtain  a  hearing  from  lawyers, 
who  all  thought  me  mad,  I  deteianined  to  come  to  j-ou. 
I  shall  speak  of  my  sorrows  later.     Allow  me  now  to 

8 


114  Colonel  Chdbert. 

state  the  facts,  and  explain  to  you  how  they  probably 
happened,  rather  than  how  they  actually  did  happen. 
Certain  circumstances,  which  can  never  be  known  ex- 
cept to  God  Almighty,  oblige  me  to  relate  much  in  the 
form  of  hj'potheses.  I  must  tell  3'ou,  for  instance,  that 
the  wounds  I  received  probably  produced  something 
like  lockjaw,  or  threw  me  into  a  state  analogous  to  a 
disease  called,  I  believe,  catalepsy.  Otherwise,  how 
can  I  suppose  that  I  was  stripped  of  my  clothing  and 
flung  into  a  common  grave,  according  to  the  customs  of 
war,  by  the  men  whose  business  it  was  to  bury  the 
diead?  Here  let  me  state  a  circumstance  which  I  only 
knew  much  later  than  the  event  which  I  am  forced  to 
call  my  death.  In  1814  I  met  in  Stuttgard  an  old  cav- 
alry sergeant  of  my  regiment.  That  dear  man  —  the 
only  human  being  wilUng  to  recognize  me,  of  whom  I 
will  presently  speak  to  you  —  explained  to  me  the  ex- 
traordinary circumstances  of  my  preservation.  He  said 
that  my  horse  received  a  bullet  in  the  body  at  the  same 
moment  when  I  myself  was  wounded.  Horse  and  rider 
were  therefore  knocked  over  together  like  a  stand  of 
muskets.  In  turning,  either  to  the  right  or  to  the 
left,  I  had  doubtless  been  protected  by  the  body  of 
my  horse  which  saved  me  from  being  crushed  by  the 
riders  or  hit  by  bullets." 

The  old  man  paused  for  a  moment  as  if  to  collect 
himself  and  then  resumed  :  — 


Colonel  ChaherL  115 

**  When  I  came  to  m3'self,  monsieur,  I  was  in  a  place 
and  in  an  atmosphere  of  which  I  could  give  you  no 
idea,  even  if  I  talked  for  da3's.  The  air  I  breathed  was 
mephitic.  I  tried  to  move  but  I  found  no  space.  My 
eyes  were  open  but  I  saw  nothing.  The  want  of  air 
was  the  worst  sign,  and  it  showed  me  the  dangers  of  my 
position.  I  felt  I  was  in  some  place  where  the  atmos- 
phere was  stagnant,  and  that  I  should  die  of  it.  This 
thought  overcame  the  sense  of  extreme  pain  which  had 
brought  me  to  my  senses.  My  ears  hummed  violently. 
I  heard,  or  thought  I  heard  (for  I  can  affirm  nothing), 
groans  from  the  heap  of  dead  bodies  among  whom  I 
lay.  Though  the  recollection  of  those  moments  is  dark, 
though  my  memory  is  confused,  and  in  spite  of  still 
greater  sufferings  which  I  experienced  later  and  which 
have  bewildered  my  ideas,  there  are  nights,  even  now, 
when  I  think  I  hear  those  smothered  moans.  But  there 
was  something  more  horrible  than  even  those  cries,  —  a 
silence  that  I  have  never  known  elsewhere,  the  silence 
of  the  grave.  At  last,  raising  mj^  hands  and  feeling 
for  the  dead,  I  found  a  void  between  my  head  and  the 
human  carrion  about  me.  I  could  even  measure  the 
space  thus  left  to  me  b}'  some  mere  chance,  the  cause 
of  which  I  did  not  know.  It  seemed  as  if,  thanks  to 
the  carelessness  or  to  the  haste  with  which  we  had  been 
flung  pell-mell  into  the  trench,  that  two  dead  bodies 
had  fallen  across  each  other  above  me,  so  as  to  form<a5> 


116  Colonel   Chahert, 

angle  like  that  of  two  cards  which  children  lay  together 
to  make  houses.  Quickly  feeling  in  all  directions,  —  for 
I  had  no  time  to  idle,  —  I  happily  came  across  an  arm, 
the  arm  of  a  Hercules,  detached  from  its  body ;  and 
those  good  bones  saved  me  !  Without  that  unlooked- 
for  succor  I  must  have  perished.  But  now,  with  a 
fury  you  will  readily  understand,  I  began  to  work  m}^ 
way  upward  through  the  bodies  which  separated  me 
from  the  layer  of  earth  hastily  flung  over  us,  — I  say 
*  us,'  as  though  there  were  others  living.  I  worked 
with  a  will,  monsieur,  for  here  I  am !  Still,  I  don't 
know  to-da}^  how  it  was  that  I  managed  to  tear  through 
the  covering  of  flesh  that  lay  between  me  and  life.  I 
had,  as  it  were,  three  arms.  That  Herculean  crow-bar, 
which  I  used  carefullj^,  brought  me  a  little  air  confined 
among  the  bodies  which  it  helped  me  to  displace,  and  I 
economized  my  breathing.  At  last  I  saw  daylight,  but 
through  the  snow,  monsieur !  Just  then  I  noticed  for 
the  first  time  that  my  head  was  cut  open.  Happily, 
my  blood  —  that  of  my  comrades,  possibly,  how  should 
I  know  ?  or  the  bleeding  flesh  of  my  horse  —  had  co- 
agulated on  my  wound  and  formed  a  natural  plaster. 
But  in  spite  of  that  scab  I  fainted  when  my  head  came 
in  contact  with  the  snow.  The  little  heat  still  left  in 
my  bod}^  melted  the  snow  about  me,  and  when  I  came 
to  myself  my  head  was  in  the  middle  of  a  little  opening, 
through  which  I  shouted  as  long  as  I  was  able.    But 


Colonel  Chahert,  117 

the  sun  had  risen  and  I  was  little  likely  to  be  heard. 
People  seemed  already-  in  the  fields.  I  raised  myself  to 
my  feet,  making  stepping-stones  of  the  dead  whose 
thighs  were  solid,  —  for  it  was  n't  the  moment  to  stop 
and  say,  '  Honor  to  heroes  !  * 

*'  In  short,  monsieur,"  continued  the  old  man,  who 
had  stopped  speaking  for  a  moment,  '*  after  going 
through  the  anguish  —  if  that  word  describes  the  rage  — 
of  seeing  those  cursed  Germans,  ay,  many  of  them, 
run  awa}'  when  they  heard  the  voice  of  a  man  they 
could  not  see,  I  was  at  last  taken  from  my  living  grave 
b}'  a  woman,  daring  enough  or  inquisitive  enough  to 
come  close  to  my  head,  which  seemed  to  grow  from  the 
ground  like  a  mushroom.  The  woman  fetched  her  hus- 
band, and  together  they  took  me  to  their  poor  hovel. 
It  seems  that  there  I  had  a  return  of  catalepsy,  —  allow 
me  that  term  with  which  to  describe  a  state  of  which  I 
have  no  idea,  but  which  I  judge,  from  what  m}^  hosts 
told  me,  must  have  been  an  effect  of  that  disease.  I  lay 
for  six  months  between  life  and  death,  not  speaking, 
or  wandering  in  mind  when  I  did  speak.  At  last  my 
benefactors  placed  me  in  the  hospital  at  Heilsberg.  Of 
course  you  understand,  monsieur,  that  I  issued  from 
my  grave  as  naked  as  I  came  from  my  mother's  womb ; 
so  that  when,  many  months  later,  I  remembered  that  I 
was  Colonel  Chabert,  and  endeavored  to  make  my 
nurses  treat  me  with  more  respect  than  if  I  were  a 


118  Colonel  Chahert, 

poor  devil  of  a  private,  ail  the  men  in  the  ward  laughed. 
Happily  for  me,  the  surgeon  made  it  a  point  of  honor 
or  vanit}^  to  cure  me ;  and  he  naturally  became  inter- 
ested in  his  patient.  When  I  spoke  to  him  in  a  con- 
nected manner  of  my  former  hfe,  that  good  man  (his 
name  was  Sparchmann)  had  my  statements  recorded  in 
the  legal  forms  of  his  countr}^  also  a  statement  of  the 
miraculous  manner  in  which  I  had  escaped  from  the 
trench,  and  the  da}^  and  hour  my  benefactress  and  her 
husband  had  rescued  me,  together  with  the  nature  and 
exact  position  of  m^^  wounds  and  a  careful  description 
of  my  person.  Well,  monsieur,  I  do  not  possess  a 
single  one  of  those  important  papers,  nor  the  declara- 
tion I  made  before  a  notary  at  Heilsberg  to  establish 
m}'  identit}'.  The  events  of  the  war  drove  us  from  the 
town,  and  from  that  day  I  have  wandered  like  a  vaga- 
bond, begging  my  bread,  treated  as  a  lunatic  when  I 
told  my  story,  unable  to  earn  a  single  sou  that  would 
enable  me  to  send  for  those  papers,  which  alone  can 
prove  the  truth  of  what  I  say  and  restore  me  to  my 
social  status.  Often  my  physical  sufferings  have  kept 
me  for  weeks  and  months  in  some  obscure  countrj-  town, 
where  the  greatest  kindness  has  been  shown  to  the  sick 
Frenchman,  but  where  they  laughed  in  his  face  when  he 
asserted  he  was  Colonel  Chabert.  For  a  long  while 
such  doubts  and  laughter  made  me  furious,  and  that  in- 
jured my  cause,  and  once  I  was  shut  up  as  a  madman 


Colonel  Chahert.  119 

at  Stuttgard.  You  can  imagine,  from  what  I  have  told 
you,  that  there  were  reasons  to  lock  me  up.  After  two 
years  in  a  madhouse,  where  I  was  forced  to  hear  my 
keepers  say :  '  This  poor  man  fancies  he  was  once  Col- 
onel Chabert,'  to  visitors,  who  replied  compassionately, 
*  Ah,  poor  man  !  *  I  m3^self  was  convinced  of  the  im- 
possibility of  my  story  being  true ;  I  grew  sad,  resigned, 
tranquil,  and  I  ceased  to  call  myself  Colonel  Chabert, 
so  as  to  get  my  release  and  return  to  France.  Oh,  mon- 
sieur !  to  see  Paris  once  more !  it  was  a  joy  I  —  " 

With  those  unfinished  words  Colonel  Chabert  sank 
into  a  revery,  which  the  lawj^er  did  not  disturb. 

"  Monsieur,"  resumed  the  client  presently,  "  one  fine 
day,  a  spring  day,  they  gave  me  my  freedom  and  ten 
thalers,  on  the  ground  that  I  talked  sensibly  on  all  sub- 
jects and  had  given  up  calling  m3^self  Colonel  Chabert ; 
and,  God  knows,  at  that  time  my  name  was  disagree- 
able to  me,  and  has  been  at  intervals  ever  since.  I 
would  like  not  to  be  myself;  the  sense  of  mj*  rights 
kills  me.  If  my  illness  had  only  taken  from  me  forever 
the  remembrance  of  my  past  existence,  I  might  be 
happy.  I  might  have  re-entered  the  service  under  some 
other  name ;  and,  who  knows  ?  perhaps  I  should  have 
ended  as  a  Russian  or  an  Austrian  field-marshal." 

**  Monsieur,"  said  the  lawj'er,  *'you  have  upset  all 
my  ideas  ;  I  fancy  I  dream  as  I  listen  to  you.  Let  us 
pause  here  for  a  moment,  I  beg  of  you." 


1^0  Colonel  Chahert, 

"You  are  the  only  person,"  said  the  colonel  sadly, 
"  who  have  ever  listened  to  me  patiently.  No  lawyer 
has  been  willing  to  lend  me  ten  napoleons,  that  I  might 
Bend  to  German}^  for  the  papers  necessary  for  my  suit." 

*'  What  suit?"  asked  the  lawyer,  who  had  forgotten 
the  unfortunate  present  position  of  his  client,  as  he 
listened  to  the  recital  of  his  past  misery. 

"  Why,  monsieur,  you  are  well  aware  that  the  Com- 
tesse  Ferraud  is  my  wife.  She  possesses  an  income  of 
thirty  thousand  francs  which  belongs  to  me,  and  she 
refuses  to  give  me  one  penny  of  it.  When  I  tell  this  to 
lawyers  and  to  men  of  common-sense,  when  I,  a  beg- 
gar, propose  to  sue  a  count  and  countess,  when  I, 
risen  from  the  dead,  deny  the  proofs  of  my  death,  thej^ 
put  me  off,  —  they  refuse  to  listen  to  me,  either  with 
that  coldly  polite  air  with  which  3'ou  lawyers  know  so 
well  how  to  rid  yourselves  of  hapless  creatures,  or 
"brutally,  as  men  do  when  they  think  they  are  dealing 
with  a  swindler  or  a  madman.  I  have  been  buried 
beneath  the  dead,  but  now  I  am  buried  beneath  the 
living,  —  beneath  facts,  beneath  records,  beneath  society 
itself,  which  seeks  to  thrust  me  back  underground !  " 

*' Monsieur,  have  the  goodness  to  sue,  to  prosecute 
now,"  said  the  lawyer. 

*'  Have  the  goodness !  Ah  ! "  exclaimed  the  unfor- 
tunate old  man,  taking  the  hand  of  the  young  lawyer ; 
"  that  is  the  first  polite  word  I  have  heard  since  —  " 


Colonel   ChaberL  121 

He  wept.  Gratitude  stifled  his  voice.  The  all-pene- 
trative, indescribable  eloquence  of  look,  gesture,  —  even 
silence,  —  clinched  Derville's  conviction,  and  touched 
him  keenly. 

"  Listen  to  me,  monsieur,"  he  said.  "  I  won  three 
hundred  francs  at  cards  to-night ;  I  can  surel}'  afford  to 
give  half  that  sum  to  procure  the  happiness  of  a  man. 
I  will  make  all  the  investigations  and  orders  necessary 
to  obtain  the  papers  you  mention ;  and,  until  their 
arrival,  I  will  allow  you  five  francs  a  day.  If  you  are 
Colonel  Chabert,  you  will  know  how  to  pardon  the  small- 
ness  of  the  loan  offered  by  a  young  man  who  has  his 
fortune  to  make.     Continue." 

The  self-styled  colonel  remained  for  an  instant  mo- 
tionless, and  as  if  stupefied  ;  his  great  misfortunes  had, 
perhaps,  destroyed  his  powers  of  belief.  If  he  were 
seeking  to  recover  his  illustrious  military  fame,  his 
home,  his  fortune,  —  himself,  in  short,  —  it  may  have 
been  only  in  obedience  to  that  inexplicable  feeling,  that 
germ  in  the  hearts  of  all  men,  to  which  we  owe  the 
researches  of  the  alchemists,  the  passion  for  glorj',  the 
discoveries  of  astronomy  and  of  physios,  —  all  that 
urges  a  man  to  magnify  himself  by  the  magnitude  of 
the  facts  or  the  ideas  that  are  a  part  of  him.  The  ef/o 
was  now  but  a  secondary  consideration  to  his  mind, 
just  as  the  vanity  of  triumph  or  the  satisfaction  of  gain 
are  dearer  to  a  man  who  bets  than  the  object  of  his 


122  Colonel  Chahert, 

wager.  The  words  of  the  3^oung  lawyer  came,  there- 
fore, like  a  miracle  to  this  man,  repudiated  for  the  last 
ten  years  by  wife,  hy  justice,  by  the  whole  social  crea- 
tion. To  receive  from  a  lawyer  those  ten  gold  pieces 
so  long  denied  him,  by  so  many  persons,  in  so  many 
ways !  The  colonel  was  like  the  lady  who  had  been  ill 
so  long,  that  when  she  was  cured  she  thought  she  was 
suffeiing  from  a  new  malad3\  There  are  joys  in  which 
we  no  longer  believe;  they  come,  and  we  find  them 
thunderbolts,  —  they  blast  us.  So  now  the  poor  man's 
gratitude  was  so  deep  that  he  could  not  utter  it.  He 
might  have  seemed  cold  to  a  superficial  mind,  but  Der- 
ville  saw  integrity  in  that  very  stupor.  A  swindler 
would  have  spoken. 

*'  Where  was  I?"  said  the  colonel,  with  the  guileless- 
ness  of  a  child  or  a  soldier ;  for  there  is  much  of  the 
child  in  the  true  soldier,  and  nearl}^  always  something 
of  a  soldier  in  a  child,  especiallj'  in  France. 

"  At  Stuttgard  ;  thej^  had  set  you  at  liberty." 

*' You  know  my  wife?"  asked  the  colonel. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Derville,  with  a  nod  of  his  head. 

*'Howisshe?" 

**  Always  fascinating." 

The  old  man  made  a  gesture  with  his  hand,  and 
seemed  to  conquer  some  secret  pang  with  the  grave 
and  solemn  resignation  that  characterizes  men  who  have 
been  tried  in  the  fire  and  blood  of  battle-fields. 


Colonel  Chahert,  123 

**  Monsieur,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  gayety ;  for  he 
breathed  anew,  poor  soul ;  he  had  issued  a  second 
time  from  the  grave  ;  he  had  broken  through  a  crust  of 
ice  and  snow  harder  to  melt  than  that  which  once  had 
frozen  his  wounded  head  ;  he  inhaled  the  air  as  though 
he  were  just  issuing  from  a  dungeon.  '^  Monsieur,"  he 
said,  "  if  I  were  a  handsome  fellow  I  should  n't  be  where 
I  am  now.  Women  believe  men  when  they  lard  their 
sentences  with  words  of  love.  Then  they  '11  fetch  and 
carry,  and  come  and  go,  and  do  anything  to  serve  you. 
They  '11  intrigue  ;  they  '11  swear  to  facts  ;  they  '11  play 
the  devil  for  the  man  they  love.  But  how  could  I  make 
a  woman  listen  to  one  like  me?  With  a  face  like  a 
death's  head,  and  clothed  like  a  sans-culotte,  I  was 
more  of  an  Esquimau  than  a  Frenchman,  —  I,  who  in 
1799  was  the  finest  coxcomb  in  the  service!  —  I,  Cha- 
bert,  count  of  the  Empire  !  At  last  the  day  came  when 
I  knew  I  was  an  outcast  on  the  streets,  like  a  pariah 
dog.  That  day  1  met  the  sergeant  I  told  you  of ;  his 
name  was  Boutin.  That  poor  devil  and  I  made  the 
finest  pair  of  broken-down  old  brutes  I  have  ever  seen. 
I  met  him,  and  recognized  him ;  but  he  couldn't  even 
guess  who  I  was.  We  went  into  a  tavern.  When  I 
told  him  my  name  his  mouth  split  open  with  a  roar  of 
laughter  like  a  burst  mortar.  Monsieur,  that  laugh  is 
among  the  bitterest  of  my  sorrows.  It  revealed,  with- 
out disguise,  the  changes  there  were  in  me.     I  saw 


124f  Colonel  Chahert. 

myself  unrecognizable,  even  to  the  humblest  and  most 
grateful  of  my  friends ;  for  I  had  once  saved  Boutin's 
life,  though  that  was  a  return  for  something  I  owed 
him.  I  need  n't  tell  you  the  whole  story ;  the  thing 
happened  in  Italy,  at  Ravenna.  The  house  where  Bou- 
tin saved  me  from  being  stabbed  was  none  too  decent. 
At  that  time  I  was  not  colonel,  only  a  trooper,  like 
Boutin.  Happilj^  there  were  circumstances  in  the  affair 
known  onlj^  to  him  and  me ;  when  I  reminded  him  of 
them,  his  increduhty  lessened.  Then  I  told  him  the 
Btory  of  my  extraordinary  fate.  Though  my  e3'es  and 
my  voice  were,  he  told  me,  strangely  altered  ;  though  I 
had  neither  hair,  nor  teeth,  nor  eyebrows,  and  was  as 
white  as  an  albino,  he  did  finally  recognize  his  old  colo- 
nel in  the  beggar  before  him,  after  putting  a  vast  number 
of  questions  to  which  I  answered  triumphantly. 

"Ah!"  went  on  the  old  soldier,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  ''he  told  me  his  adventures  too,  and  they  were 
hardly  less  extraordinary  than  mine.  He  was  just  back 
from  the  borders  of  China,  to  which  he  had  escaped 
from  Siberia.  He  told  me  of  the  disasters  of  the  Rus- 
sian campaign  and  Napoleon's  first  abdication ;  that 
news  was  another  of  my  worst  pangs.  We  were  two 
strange  wrecks  drifting  over  the  globe,  as  the  storms  of 
ocean  drift  the  pebbles  from  shore  to  shore.  We  had 
each  seen  Egypt,  Syria,  Spain,  Russia,  Holland,  Ger- 
many, Italy,  Dalmatia,  England,  China,  Tartary,  Si- 


Colonel  Chabert.  125 

beria ;  nothing  was  left  for  us  to  know  but  the  Indies 
and  America.  Boutin,  who  was  more  active  on  his 
legs  than  I,  agreed  to  go  to  Paris  as  quickty  as  he 
could,  and  tell  my  wife  the  state  in  which  I  was.  I 
wrote  a  long  and  detailed  letter  to  Madame  Chabert ;  it 
was  the  fourth  I  had  written  her.  Monsieur,  if  I  had 
had  relatives  of  my  own,  the  thing  could  not  have  hap- 
pened ;  but,  I  must  tell  you  plainly,  I  was  a  foundling,  a 
soldier  whose  patrimon}^  was  his  courage,  the  world  his 
family,  France  his  country,  God  his  sole  protector,  — 
no!  I  am  wrong;  I  had  a  father,  —  the  Emperor! 
Ah !  if  he,  dear  man,  were  still  among  us ;  if  he  saw 
*  his  Chabert,'  as  he  called  me,  in  such  a  plight,  he 
would  be  furious.  But  what 's  to  be  done  ?  our  sun  has 
set ;  we  are  all  left  out  in  the  cold !  After  all,  political 
events  might  be  the  reason  of  mj'  wife's  silence  ;  at  least 
I  thought  so.  Boutin  departed.  He  was  lucky,  he  was, 
poor  fellow !  he  had  two  white  bears  who  danced  and 
kept  him  in  food.  I  could  not  accompany  him ;  my 
pains  were  so  great  I  could  not  go  long  distances.  I 
wept  when  we  parted,  having  walked  as  far  as  I  had 
strength  with  the  bears  and  him.  At  Carlsruhe  I  was 
taken  with  neuralgia  in  my  head,  and  lay  six  weeks  in 
the  straw  of  an  inn  barn. 

'*  Ah !  monsieur,"  continued  the  unhappy  man,  "  there 
is  no  end  to  what  I  might  tell  you  of  my  miserable  life. 
Moral  anguish,  before  which  all  physical  sufferings  are 


126  Colonel  Chahert. 

as  nought,  excites  less  pity  because  it  is  not  seen.  I 
remember  weeping  before  a  mansion  in  Strasburg  where 
I  once  gave  a  ball,  and  where  they  now  refused  me  a 
crust  of  bread.  Having  agreed  with  Boutin  as  to  the 
road  I  should  follow,  I  went  to  every  post-office  on  my 
way  expecting  to  find  a  letter  and  some  money.  I 
reached  Paris  at  last  without  a  line.  Despair  was 
in  my  heart !  Boutin  must  be  dead,  I  thought ;  and 
I  was  right;  the  poor  fellow  died  at  Waterloo,  as  I 
heard  later  and  accidentally.  His  errand  to  my  wife 
was  no  doubt  fruitless.  Well,  I  reached  Paris  just 
as  the  Cossacks  entered  it.  To  me,  that  was  grief  upon 
grief.  When  I  saw  those  Russians  in  France  I  no 
longer  remembered  that  I  had  neither  shoes  on  my  feet 
nor  monej^  in  my  pocket.  Yes,  monsieur,  my  clothes 
were  literally  in  shreds.  The  evening  of  my  arrival  I 
was  forced  to  bivouac  in  the  woods  of  Claye.  The 
chilliness  of  the  night  gave  me  a  sort  of  illness,  I 
hardly  know  what  it  was,  which  seized  me  as  I  was 
crossing  the  faubourg  Saint-Martin.  I  fell,  half-uncon- 
scious, close  by  the  door  of  an  ironmonger.  When  I 
came  to  my  senses  I  was  in  a  bed  at  the  Hotel-Die u. 
There  I  stayed  a  month  in  some  comfort ;  then  I  was 
discharged.  I  had  no  mone^',  but  I  was  cured  and  I 
had  my  feet  on  the  blessed  pavements  of  Paris.  With 
what  joy  and  speed  I  made  my  way  to  the  rue  du  Mont- 
Blanc,  where   I   supposed  my   wife  was  living  in  my 


Colonel  Chahert,  127 

house.  Bah !  the  rue  du  Mont-Blanc  had  become  the 
rue  de  la  Chaussee-d'Antin.  My  house  was  no  longer 
standing ;  it  was  pulled  down.  Speculators  had  built 
houses  in  my  gardens.  Not  knowing  that  my  wife  had 
married  Monsieur  Ferraud,  I  could  hear  nothing  of  her. 
At  last  I  went  to  an  old  lawyer  who  formerly  took  charge 
of  my  affairs.  The  good  man  was  dead,  and  his  office 
had  passed  into  the  hands  of  a  younger  man.  The 
latter  informed  me,  to  my  great  astonishment,  of  the 
settlement  of  my  estate,  the  marriage  of  my  wife,  and 
the  birth  of  her  two  children.  When  I  told  him  that 
I  was  Colonel  Chabert,  he  laughed  so  loudly  in  my  face 
that  I  turned  and  left  him  without  a  word.  My  deten- 
tion at  Stuttgart  made  me  mindful  of  Charenton,  and  I 
resolved  to  act  prudently.  Then,  monsieur,  knowing 
where  my  wife  lived,  I  made  my  way  to  the  house  — 
Ah !  "  cried  the  colonel,  with  a  gesture  of  intense  anger, 
'*  I  was  not  received  when  I  gave  a  borrowed  name,  but 
when  I  sent  in  my  own  I  was  turned  out  of  the  house ! 
I  have  stood  night  after  night  leaning  against  the  but- 
tress of  her  porte-cochere  to  see  her  returning  from  a 
ball  or  from  the  theatre.  I  have  plunged  my  eyes  into 
that  carriage  where  I  could  see  the  woman  who  is  mine 
and  who  is  not  mine !  Oh !  from  that  day  I  have  lived 
for  vengeance,"  cried  the  old  man,  in  a  hollow  voice, 
standing  suddenly  erect  in  front  of  Derville.  "  She 
knows  I  am  living ;  she  has  received  three  letters  which 


128  Colonel  Chahert 

I  have  written  to  her  since  my  return.  She  loves  me 
no  longer !  I  —  I  don't  know  if  I  love  her  or  if  I  hate 
her ;  I  long  for  her  and  I  curse  her  by  turns !  She 
owes  her  prosperit}^  and  all  her  happiness  to  me,  and 
she  denies  me  even  the  meanest  succor!  Sometimes 
I  don't  know  where  to  turn !  " 

The  old  man  fell  back  into  a  chair,  motionless  and 
fiilent.  Derville  too  was  silent,  contemplating  his 
client. 

"  The  matter  is  serious/'  he  said  at  last  in  a  mechan- 
ical way.  *'  Even  admitting  the  authenticity  of  the 
papers  which  ought  to  be  found  at  Heilsberg,  it  is  not 
clear  that  we  can  establish  our  case,  —  certainly  not  at 
once.  The  suit  will  have  to  go  before  three  courts. 
I  must  reflect  at  my  leisure  over  such  a  case.  It  is 
exceptional." 

"  Oh ! "  replied  the  colonel,  coldly,  lifting  his  head 
with  a  proud  gesture,  "  if  I  am  compelled  to  succumb, 
I  can  die,  —  but  not  alone." 

With  the  words  the  old  man  seemed  to  vanish ;  the 
eyes  of  the  man  of  energy  shone  with  the  fires  of  desire 
and  vengeance. 

*'  Perhaps  we  shall  have  to  compromise,"  said  the 
lawyer. 

''Compromise!"  repeated  Colonel  Chabert.  ''Am 
I  dead,  or  am  I  living?" 

"Monsieur,"  said  the  lawyer,   "you  will,   I  hope, 


Colonel  Chabert  129 

follow  my  advice.  Your  cause  shall  be  my  cause. 
You  will  soon,  I  trust,  see  the  true  interest  I  take 
in  your  situation,  which  is  almost  without  precedent 
in  legal  annals.  Meantime  let  me  give  you  an  order 
on  my  notary,  who  will  remit  you  fifty  francs  every 
ten  days  on  your  receipt.  It  is  not  desirable  that  3'ou 
should  come  here  for  this  money.  If  you  are  Colonel 
Chabert  you  ought  not  to  be  beholden  to  any  one.  I 
shall  make  these  advances  in  the  form  of  a  loan.  You 
have  property  to  recover ;  you  are  a  rich  man." 

This  last  delicate  consideration  for  his  feelings 
brought  tears  from  the  old  man's  eyes.  Derville  rose 
abruptly,  for  assuredly  it  is  not  the  thing  for  a  lawyer 
to  show  feeling;  he  went  into  his  private  study  and 
returned  presently  with  an  unsealed  letter,  which  he 
gave  to  Colonel  Chabert.  When  the  old  man  took  it 
he  felt  two  gold  pieces  within  the  paper. 

*'Tell  me  precisely  what  the  papers  are;  give  me 
the  exact  name  of  the  town  and  kingdom,"  said  the 
lawyer. 

The  colonel  dictated  the  necessary  infonnation  and 
corrected  the  spelling  of  the  names.  Then  he  took 
his  hat  in  one  hand,  looked  at  Derville,  offered  him 
the  other  hand,  a  horny  hand,  and  said  in  a  simple 
way,  — 

"After  the  Emperor  you  are  the  man  to  whom  I 
owe  most.     You  are  a  noble  man." 

9 


130  Colonel  Chahert, 

The  lawyer  clasped  the  colonel's  hand,  and  went 
with  him  to  the  stairway  to  light  him  down. 

"  Boucard,"  said  the  lawj'er  to  his  head- clerk,  whom 
he  summoned,  "  I  have  just  heard  a  tale  which  may 
cost  me  some  money.  If  I  am  deceived  I  shall  never 
regret  what  I  pay,  for  I  shall  have  seen  the  greatest 
comedian  of  our  time." 

''When  the  colonel  reached  the  street,  he  stopped 
under  a  lamp,  drew  the  two  pieces  of  twenty  francs 
each  from  the  letter  which  the  lawyer  had  given  him, 
and  looked  at  them  for  a  moment  in  the  dim  light.  He 
saw  gold  for  the  first  time  in  nine  years. 

"  I  can  smoke  cigars,"  he  said  to  himself. 

About  three  months  after  the  nocturnal  consultation 
of  Colonel  Chabert  with  Derville,  the  notary  whom  the 
latter  had  directed  to  pay  the  stipend  he  allowed  to  his 
singular  client  went  to  the  lawyer's  office  one  day  to 
confer  on  some  important  matter,  and  opened  the  con^ 
versation  by  asking  for  the  six  hundred  francs  he  had 
already  paid  to  the  old  soldier. 

"  Do  you  find  it  amusing  to  support  the  old  army?" 
said  the  notary,  laughing.  His  name  was  Crottat,  —  a 
young  man  who  had  just  bought  a  practice  in  which  he 
was  head-clerk,  the  master  of  which,  a  certain  Roguin, 
had  lately  absconded  after  a  frightful  failure. 

''  Thank  you,  my  dear  fellow,  for  reminding  me  o 


Colonel  Chahert,  131 

that  affair,"  replied  Derville.  "My  philanthrop}'  does 
not  go  be3ond  twenty-five  louis  ;  I  fear  I  have  been  the 
dupe  of  my  patriotism." 

As  Derville  uttered  the  words  his  eyes  lighted  on  a 
packet  of  papers  the  head-clerk  had  laid  upon  his  desk. 
His  attention  was  drawn  to  one  of  the  letters  by  the 
postmarks,  oblong,  square,  and  triangular,  and  red 
and  blue  stamped  upon  it  in  the  Prussian,  Austrian, 
Bavarian,  and  French  post-offices. 

*'  Ah  !  "  said  he,  laughing,  '^  here  *s  the  conclusion  of 
the  comedj" ;  now  we  shall  see  if  I  have  been  taken  in." 

He  took  up  the  letter  and  opened  it,  but  was  unable 
to  read  a  word,  for  it  was  in  German. 

"Boucard!  "  he  called,  opening  the  door  and  hold- 
ing out  the  letter  to  his  head-clerk,  "  go  yourself  and 
get  that  letter  translated,  and  come  back  with  it  as  fast 
as  you  can." 

The  Berlin  notary  to  whom  Derville  had  written  now 
replied  by  informing  the  latter  that  the  papers  he  had 
asked  for  would  reach  him  a  few  days  after  this  letter 
of  advice.  They  were  all,  he  said,  perfectly  regular, 
and  were  fully  certified  with  the  necessary  legal  forms. 
He  added,  moreover,  that  nearly  all  the  witnesses  to 
the  facts  were  still  living,  and  that  the  woman  to  whom 
Monsieur  le  Comte  Chabert  owed  his  life  could  be  found 
in  a  certain  suburb  of  Heilsberg. 

*'  It  is  getting  serious,"  said  Derville,  when  Boucard 


132  Colonel  Chahert, 

had  told  him  the  substance  of  the  letter.  ''  But  see 
here,  mj  dear  fellow,  I  want  some  information  which  I 
am  sure  3'ou  must  have  in  3'our  office.  When  that  old 
swindler  of  a  Roguin  —  " 

"We  say  'the  unfortunate  Roguin,'"  said  Crottat, 
laughing,  as  he  interrupted  Derville. 

"  Well  —  when  that  unfortunate  Roguin  ran  off  with 
eight  hundred  thousand  francs  of  his  clients'  money 
and  reduced  many  families  to  pauperism,  what  was 
done  about  the  Chabert  property?  It  seems  to  me  I 
have  seen  something  about  it  among  our  Ferraud 
papers." 

'*Yes,"  replied  Crottat,  "I  was  third  clerk  at  the 
time,  and  I  remember  copying  and  studying  the  docu- 
ments. Rose  Chapotel,  wife  and  widow  of  Hyacinthe, 
called  Chabert,  count  of  the  Empire,  grand  oflScer  of 
the  Legion  of  honor.  They  had  married  without  a  con- 
tract and  therefore  they  held  their  property  in  common. 
As  far  as  I  can  recollect,  the  assets  amounted  to  about 
six  hundred  thousand  francs.  Before  his  marriage 
Comte  Chabert  had  made  a  will  leaving  one  fourth  of 
the  property  of  which  he  might  die  possessed  to  the 
Parisian  hospitals ;  the  State  inherited  another  fourth. 
There  was  an  auction  sale  and  a  distribution  of  the 
property,  for  the  lawyers  made  good  speed  with  the 
affair.  Upon  the  settlement  of  the  estate  the  monster 
who  then  ruled  France  made  a  decree  restoring  the 


Colonel   Chahert.  138 

amount  which  had  gone  to  the  Treasury  to  the  colonel's 
widow." 

"  So  that  Comte  Chabert's  individual  propert}-,"  said 
Derville,  ''  does  not  amount  to  more  than  three  hundred 
thousand  francs  ?  " 

"  Just  that,  old  man,"  said  Crottat ;  "  you  solicitors 
do  occasionally  get  things  right,  —  though  some  people 
accuse  3'ou  of  arguing  just  as  well  against  as  for  the 
truth." 

Comte  Chabert,  whose  address  was  written  at  the 
foot  of  the  first  receipt  he  had  given  to  the  notary, 
lived  in  the  faubourg  Saint-Marceau,  rue  du  Petit-Ban- 
quier,  with  an  old  sergeant  of  the  Imperial  Guard  named 
Vergniaud,  now  a  cow-keeper.  When  Derville  reached 
the  place  he  was  obliged  to  go  on  foot  to  find  his  client, 
for  his  groom  positively  refused  to  drive  through  an  un- 
paved  street  the  ruts  of  which  were  deep  enough  to 
break  the  wheels  of  a  cabriolet.  Looking  about  him 
on  all  sides,  the  lawyer  at  length  discovered  at  the  end 
of  the  street  nearest  to  the  boulevard  and  between  two 
walls  built  of  bones  and  mud,  two  shabby  rough  stone 
pillars,  much  defaced  by  wheels  in  spite  of  wooden 
posts  placed  in  front  of  them.  These  pillars  supported 
a  beam  covered  with  a  tiled  hood,  on  which,  painted 
red,  were  the  words,  '^  Vergniaud,  Cow-keeper."  To 
the  right  of  the  name  was  a  cow,  and  to  the  left  eggs, 
all  painted  white.     The  gate  was  open. 


134  Colonel  Chahert, 

At  the  farther  end  of  a  good-sized  j^ard  and  opposite 
to  the  gate  stood  the  house,  if  indeed  that  name  right- 
fully belongs  to  one  of  those  hovels  built  in  the  suburbs 
of  Paris,  the  squalor  of  which  cannot  be  matched  else- 
where, not  even  in  the  most  wretched  of  countrj'  huts ; 
for  they  have  all  the  poverty  of  the  latter  without 
their  poetr^^  In  fact,  a  cabin  in  the  open  countrj'  has 
the  charm  that  pure  air,  verdure,  the  meadow  vistas, 
a  hill,  a  winding  road,  creepers,  evergreen  hedges,  a 
mossy  roof  and  rural  implements  can  give  to  it ;  but  in 
Paris  povert}^  is  heightened  onlj-  b}'  horrors.  Though 
recently  built,  the  house  seemed  tumbling  to  ruins. 
None  of  its  materials  were  originallj-  destined  for  it ; 
they  came  from  the  "demoHtions"  which  are  dail3' 
events  in  Paris.  On  a  shutter  made  of  an  old  sign 
Derville  read  the  words  "  Fancy-articles."  No  two  of 
the  windows  were  alike,  and  all  were  placed  hap-hazard. 
The  ground-floor,  which  seemed  to  be  the  habitable  part 
of  the  hovel,  was  raised  from  the  earth  on  one  side, 
while  on  the  other  the  rooms  were  sunk  below  a  bank. 
Between  the  gate  and  the  house  was  a  slough  of  ma- 
nure, into  which  flowed  the  rain-water  and  the  drainage 
from  the  house.  The  wall  upon  which  this  rickety 
building  rested  was  surrounded  by  hutches  in  which 
rabbits  brought  forth  their  numerous  young.  To  the 
right  of  the  gate  was  the  cow-shed,  which  communicated 
with  the  house  through  a  dair}^,  and  over  it  the  hay-loft. 


Colonel  Chdbert,  135 

To  the  left  was  a  poultry-yard,  a  stable,  and  a  pig- 
st}',  all  of  which  were  finished  off,  like  the  house, 
with  shabby  planks  of  white-wood  nailed  one  above  the 
other  and  filled  in  with  rushes.  Like  most  of  the  pur- 
lieus whence  the  elements  of  the  grand  dinners  dail}' 
eaten  in  Paris  are  derived,  the  yard  in  which  Derville  now 
stood  showed  signs  of  the  haste  required  for  the  prompt 
filling  of  orders.  The  great  tin  cans  in  which  the  milk 
was  carried,  the  smaller  cans  with  their  linen  stoppers 
which  contained  the  cream,  were  tossed  higgledy-piggle- 
dy in  front  of  the  dairy.  The  rags  used  to  wipe  them 
out  were  hanging  in  the  sun  to  dry,  on  lines  fastened 
to  hooks.  The  steady  horse,  of  a  race  extinct  except 
among  milk-dealers,  had  walked  a  few  steps  away  from 
the  cart  and  stood  in  front  of  the  stable,  the  door  of 
which  was  locked.  A  goat  browsed  upon  the  spindling, 
powder}^  vine-shoots  which  crept  along  the  cracked  and 
3'ellow  walls  of  the  house.  A  cat  was  creeping  among 
the  cream-cans  and  licking  the  outside  of  them.  The 
hens,  scared  at  Derville's  advent,  scuttled  away  cack- 
ling, and  the  watch-dog  barked. 

''The  man  who  decided  the  victory  of  Eylau  lives 
here ! "  thought  Derville,  taking  in  at  a  glance  the 
whole  of  this  squalid  scene. 

The  house  seemed  to  be  under  the  guardianship  of 
three  little  ragamuffins.  One,  who  had  clambered  to 
the  top  of  a  cart  laden  with  green  fodder,  was  throwing 


136  Colonel  Chahert 

stones  down  the  chimney  of  the  next  house,  probably 
hoping  that  they  would  fall  into  the  saucepans  below ; 
another  was  trying  to  lead  a  pig  up  the  floor  of  a  tip- 
cart,  one  end  of  which  touched  the  ground,  while  the 
third,  hanging  on  to  the  other  end,  was  waiting  till  the 
pig  was  fairly  in  to  tip  the  cart  up  again.  When  Der- 
ville  asked  if  that  was  where  Monsieur  Chabert  lived 
none  of  them  answered ;  and  all  three  gazed  at  him 
with  lively  stupiditj' ,  —  if  it  is  allowable  to  unite  those 
words.  Derville  repeated  his  question  without  result. 
Provoked  at  the  saucy  air  of  the  little  scamps,  he  spoke 
sharply,  in  a  tone  which  young  men  think  they  can  use 
to  children,  and  the  bojs  broke  silence  with  a  roar  of 
laughter.  Derville  was  angry.  The  colonel,  who  heard 
the  noise,  came  out  of  a  little  room  near  the  dairy  and 
stood  on  the  sill  of  his  door  with  the  imperturbable 
phlegm  of  a  military  training.  In  his  mouth  was  a 
pipe  in  process  of  being  *'  colored,"  —  one  of  those 
humble  pipes  of  white  clay  with  short  stems  called 
*'  muzzle-scorchers."  He  raised  the  peak  of  a  cap 
which  was  horribly  greasy,  saw  Dersille,  and  came 
across  the  manure  heap  in  haste  to  meet  his  bene- 
factor, calling  out  in  a  friendly  tone  to  the  boys, 
''Silence,  in  the  ranks!"  The  children  became  in- 
stantly and  respectfull}^  silent,  showing  the  power  the 
old  soldier  had  over  them. 

''Why  haven't  you  written  to  me?"  he  said  to  Der- 


Colonel  Chabert.  137 

ville.  **  Go  along  by  the  cow-house  ;  see,  the  j-ard  is 
paved  on  that  side,"  he  cried,  noticing  the  hesitation 
of  the  young  lawyer,  who  did  not  care  to  set  his  feet 
in  the  wet  manure. 

Jumping  from  stone  to  stone,  Derv'ille  at  last  reached 
the  door  through  which  the  colonel  had  issued.  Chabert 
seemed  annoyed  at  the  necessity  of  receiving  him  in  the 
room  he  was  occupying.  In  fact,  there  was  only  one 
chair.  The  colonel's  bed  was  merely  a  few  bundles  of 
straw  on  which  his  landlad}^  had  spread  some  ragged  bits 
of  old  carpet,  such  as  milk-women  lay  upon  the  seats  of 
their  wagons,  and  pick  up,  heaven  knows  where.  The 
floor  was  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  earth  beaten 
hard.  Such  dampness  exuded  from  the  nitrified  walls, 
greenish  in  color  and  full  of  cracks,  that  the  side  where 
the  colonel  slept  had  been  covered  with  a  mat  made  of 
reeds.  The  top-coat  was  hanging  to  a  nail.  Two  pairs 
of  broken  boots  laj^  in  a  corner.  Not  a  vestige  of 
under-clothing  was  seen.  The  ''  Bulletins  of  the  Grand 
Army,"  reprinted  by  Plancher,  was  lying  open  on  a 
mouldy  table,  as  if  constantly  read  b}^  the  colonel, 
whose  face  was  calm  and  serene  in  the  midst  of  this 
direful  poverty.  His  visit  to  Derville  seemed  to  have 
changed  the  very  character  of  his  features,  on  which 
the  law3'er  now  saw  traces  of  happy  thought,  the  special 
gleam  which  hope  had  cast. 

'*Does  the  smoke  of  a  pipe  annoy  you?"  he  asked, 


138  Colonel  CkaherL 

offering  the  one  chair,  and  that  half-denuded  of 
straw. 

*'  But  colonel,  you  are  shockingly  ill-lodged  here !  " 

The  words  were  wrung  from  Derville  by  the  natural 
distrust  of  lawyers,  caused  by  the  deplorable  experience 
that  comes  to  them  so  soon  from  the  dreadful,  m3'steri- 
ous  dramas  in  which  they  are  called  professionally  to 
take  part. 

*'  That  man,"  thought  Derville  to  himself,  '*  has  no 
doubt  spent  my  money  in  gratifying  the  three  cardinal 
virtues  of  a  trooper,  —  wine,  women,  and  cards. 

*'True  enough,  monsieur;  we  don't  abound  in  lux- 
ury. It  is  a  bivouac,  tempered,  as  you  may  say,  bj' 
friendship  ;  but "  (here  the  soldier  cast  a  searching  look 
at  the  law3'er)  ''  I  have  done  wrong  to  no  man,  I  have 
repulsed  no  man,  and  I  sleep  in  peace." 

Derville  felt  there  would  be  a  want  of  delicacy  in 
asking  his  client  to  account  for  his  use  of  the  monej'  he 
had  lent  him,  so  he  merely  said:  ''  Wh}^  don't  you 
come  into  Paris,  where  you  could  live  just  as  cheaply' 
as  you  do  here,  and  be  much  better  off  ?  " 

"Because,"  replied  the  colonel,  "  the  good,  kind 
people  I  am  with  took  me  in  and  fed  me  gratis  for 
a  year,  and  how  could  I  desert  them  the  moment  I 
got  a  little  money?  Besides,  the  father  of  these 
3'oung  scamps  is  an  Egyptian." 

"An  Egyptian?" 


Colonel  Chahert,  139 

"That's  what  we  call  the  troopers  who  returned 
from  the  expedition  to  Egypt,  in  which  I  took  part. 
Not  only  are  we  all  brothers  in  heart,  but  Vergniaud 
was  in  my  regiment ;  he  and  I  shared  the  water  of  the 
desert.  Besides,  I  want  to  finish  teaching  those  little 
monkeys  to  read." 

"  He  might  give  you  a  better  room  for  your  money," 
said  the  lawyer. 

**  Bah ! "  said  the  colonel,  "  the  children  sleep  as  I 
do  on  straw.  He  and  his  wife  have  no  better  bed 
themselves.  They  are  ver}^  poor,  you  see ;  they  have 
more  of  an  establishment  here  than  they  can  manage. 
But  if  I  get  back  my  fortune  —    Well,  enough !  " 

**  Colonel,  I  expect  to  receive  your  papers  from 
Heilsberg  to-morrow  ;  your  benefactress  is  still  living." 

*'0h!  cursed  money!  to  think  I  haven't  any!" 
cried  the  colonel,  flinging  down  his  pipe. 

A  *' colored"  pipe  is  a  precious  pipe  to  a  smoker; 
but  the  action  was  so  natural  and  so  generous  that 
all  smokers  would  have  forgiven  him  that  act  of  leze- 
tobacco ;  the  angels  might  have  picked  up  the  pieces. 

"  Colonel,  your  affair  is  very  complicated,"  said 
Derville,  leaving  the  room  to  walk  up  and  down  in 
the  sun  before  the  house. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  the  soldier,  *'  perfectlj'  sim- 
ple. They  thought  me  dead,  and  here  I  am !  Give 
me  back  my  wife  and  my  property ;  give  me  the  rank 


140  Colonel   Chahert, 

of  general,  —  to  which  I  have  a  right,  for  I  had  passed 
colonel  in  the  Imperial  Guard  the  night  before  the  battle 
of  Eylau." 

"Matters  are  not  managed  that  way  in  law,"  said 
Derville.  *'  Listen  to  me.  You  are  Comte  Chabert,  — 
I'll  admit  that;  but  the  thing  is  to  prove  it  legally 
against  those  persons  whose  interest  it  is  to  deny 
your  existence.  All  your  papers  and  documents  will 
be  disputed ;  and  the  very  first  discussions  will  open  a 
dozen  or  more  preliminar}^  questions.  Every  step  will 
be  fought  over  up  to  the  supreme  court.  All  that  will 
involve  expensive  suits,  which  will  drag  along,  no  matter 
how  much  energj^  I  put  into  them.  Your  adversaries 
will  demand  an  inquiry,  which  we  cannot  refuse,  and 
which  will  perhaps  necessitate  sending  a  commission 
to  Prussia.  But  suppose  all  went  well,  and  jou  were 
promptly  and  legally  recognized  as  Colonel  Cliabert, 
what  then?  Do  we  know  how  the  question  of  Ma- 
dame Ferraud's  innocent  bigamy  would  be  decided  ? 
Here 's  a  case  where  the  question  of  rights  is  outside 
of  the  Code,  and  can  be  decided  by  the  judges  only 
under  the  laws  of  conscience,  as  a  jury  does  in  many 
delicate  cases  which  social  perversities  bring  up  in 
criminal  courts.  Now,  here 's  a  point :  you  had  no 
children  by  your  marriage,  and  Monsieur  Ferraud  has 
two ;  the  judges  may  annul  the  marriage  where  the  ties 
are  weakest,  in  favor  of  a  marriage  which  involves  the 


Colonel  Chahert.  141 

well-beiug  of  children,  admitting  that  the  parents  mar- 
ried in  good  faith.  Would  it  be  a  fine  or  moral  posi- 
tion for  you,  at  your  age,  and  under  these  circumstances, 
to  insist  on  having  —  will  ye,  nill  ye  —  a  wife  who  no 
longer  loves  you  ?  You  would  have  against  you  a  hus- 
band and  wife  who  are  powerful  and  able  to  bring  in- 
fluence upon  the  judges.  The  case  has  many  elements 
of  duration  in  it.  You  may  spend  years  and  grow  an 
old  man  still  struggling  with  the  sharpest  grief  and 
anxiety." 

*'  But  my  property?  " 
"  You  think  you  have  a  large  fortune?" 
*'  I  had  an  income  of  thirty  thousand  francs." 
*'My  dear  colonel,  in  1799,  before  3'our  marriage, 
you  made  a  will  leaving  a  quarter  of  your  whole  prop- 
erty to  the  hospitals." 
"  That  is  true." 

"Well,  3'ou  were  supposed  to  be  dead;  then  of 
course  an  inventory  of  your  property  was  made  and 
the  whole  wound  up  in  order  to  give  that  fourth  part 
to  the  said  hospitals.  Your  wife  had  no  scruples  about 
cheating  the  poor.  The  inventory,  in  which  she  took 
care  not  to  mention  the  cash  on  hand  or  her  jeweby, 
or  the  full  amount  of  the  silver,  and  in  which  the  fur- 
niture was  appraised  at  two-thirds  below  its  real  value 
(either  to  please  her  or  to  lessen  the  treasury  tax,  for  ap- 
praisers are  liable  for  the  amount  of  their  valuations) ,  — 


142  Colonel  Chahert, 

this  inventory,  I  say,  gave  your  property  as  amounting 
to  six  hundred  thousand  francs.  Your  widow  had  a 
legal  right  to  half.  Everything  was  sold  and  bought 
in  by  her;  she  gained  on  the  whole  transaction,  and 
the  hospitals  got  their  seventy-five  thousand  frsncs. 
Then,  as  the  Treasury-  inherited  the  rest  of  your  prop- 
erty (for  3^ou  had  not  mentioned  your  wife  in  your 
will),  the  Emperor  made  a  decree  returning  the  portion 
which  reverted  to  the  Treasur}^  to  your  widow.  Now, 
then,  the  question  is,  to  what  have  3^ou  any  legal  right  ? 
—  to  three  hundred  thousand  francs  only,  less  costs." 

"You  call  that  justice?"  said  the  colonel,  thunder- 
struck. 

"Of  course." 

"  Fine  justice  ! " 

"It  is  always  so,  my  poor  colonel.  You  see  now 
that  what  you  thought  so  easy  is  not  eas}"  at  all.  Ma- 
dame Ferraud  may  also  ivy  to  keep  the  portion  the 
Emperor  returned  to  her." 

"  But  she  was  not  a  widow,  and  therefore  the  decree 
was  null." 

"  I  admit  that.  But  everything  can  be  argued.  Lis- 
ten to  me.  Under  these  circumstances,  I  think  a  com- 
promise is  the  best  thing  both  for  3'ou  and  for  her. 
You  could  get  a  larger  sum  that  way  than  by  assert- 
ing your  rights." 

"  It  would  be  selling  my  wife  !  " 


Colonel  Chahert  143 

•*  With  an  income  of  twent3'-four  thousand  francs 
you  would  be  in  a  position  to  find  another  who  would 
suit  3'ou  better  and  make  you  happier.  I  intend  to  go 
and  see  the  Comtesse  Ferraud  to-da}^  and  find  out  how 
the  land  lies  ;  but  I  did  not  wish  to  take  that  step  with- 
out letting  you  know." 

**  We  will  go  together." 

"  Dressed  as  3^ou  are?  "  said  the  lawyer.  *'  No,  no, 
colonel,  no  !     You  might  lose  your  case." 

*' Can  I  win  it?" 

"  Yes,  under  all  aspects,"  answered  Derville.  '*  But 
mj'  dear  Colonel  Chabert,  there  is  one  thing  j^ou  pay 
no  heed  to.  I  am  not  rich,  and  my  practice  is  not 
yet  wholly  paid  for.  If  the  courts  should  be  willing 
to  grant  you  a  provisional  maintenance  they  will  only 
do  so  after  recognizing  your  claims  as  Colonel  Chabert, 
grand  oflScer  of  the  Legion  of  honor." 

*'  So  I  am  !  "  said  the  old  man,  naively,  "  grand  oflScer 
of  the  Legion  of  honor,  —  I  had  forgotten  that." 

"Well,  as  I  was  saying,"  resumed  Derville,  '*till 
then  3'ou  will  have  to  bring  suits,  pay  lawv^ers,  serve 
writs,  employ  sheriffs,  and  live.  The  cost  of  those 
preUminary  steps  will  amount  to  more  than  twelve  or 
even  fifteen  thousand  francs.  I  can't  lend  you  the 
money  for  I  am  crushed  by  the  enormous  interest  I 
am  forced  to  pay  to  those  who  lent  me  money  to  buy 
my  practice.     Where,  then,  can  you  get  it?  " 


144  Colonel  Chahert. 

Big  tears  fell  from  the  faded  eyes  of  the  old  soldier 
and  rolled  down  his  cheeks.  The  sight  of  these  difficul- 
ties discouraged  him.  The  social  and  judicial  world 
lay  upon  his  breast  like  a  nightmare. 

"  I  will  go  to  the  column  of  the  place  Vendome,"  he 
said,  *'  and  cry  aloud, '  I  am  Colonel  Chabert,  who  broke 
the  Russian  square  at  Eylau ! '  The  man  of  iron  up 
there  —  ah  !  he  '11  recognize  me !  " 

*'  They  would  put  3^ou  in  Charenton." 

At  that  dreaded  name  the  soldier's  courage  fell. 

*'  Perhaps  I  should  have  a  better  chance  at  the 
ministry  of  war,"  he  said. 

"  In  a  government  office?  Well,  tr}'  it,"  said  Der- 
ville.  "  But  you  must  take  with  you  a  legal  judgment 
declaring  3'our  death  disproved.  The  government 
would  prefer  to  get  rid  of  the  Empire  people." 

The  colonel  remained  for  a  moment  speechless,  mo- 
tionless, gazing  before  him  and  seeing  nothing,  plunged 
in  a  bottomless  despair.  Militar}"  justice  is  prompt 
and  straight-forward ;  it  decides  peremptorily,  and  is 
generall}^  fair ;  this  was  the  only  justice  Chabert  knew. 
Seeing  the  labyrinth  of  difficulty  which  lay  before  him^ 
and  knowing  that  he  had  no  mone}'  with  which  to  enter 
it,  the  poor  soldier  was  mortally  wounded  in  that  par- 
ticular power  of  human  nature  which  we  call  will.  He 
felt  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  live  in  a  legal  struggle ; 
far  easier  to  his  nature  was  it  to  sta}^  poor  and  a  beg- 


Colonel  Chahert,  145 

gar,  or  to  enlist  in  some  cavalrj'  regiment  if  the}'  would 
still  take  him.  Physical  and  mental  suffering  had  vitiated 
his  body  in  some  of  its  important  organs.  He  was 
approaching  one  of  those  diseases  for  which  the  science 
of  medicine  has  no  name,  the  seat  of  which  is,  in  a  way, 
movable  (like  the  nervous  system  which  is  the  part  of 
our  machinery  most  frequently  attacked),  an  affection 
which  we  must  fain  call  "  the  spleen  of  sorrow." 
However  serious  this  invisible  but  most  real  disease 
might  be,  it  was  still  curable  by  a  happy  termination 
of  his  gi'iefs.  To  completely  unhinge  and  destroy  that 
vigorous  organization  some  final  blow  was  needed, 
some  unexpected  shock  which  might  break  the  weak- 
ened springs  and  produce  those  strange  hesitations, 
those  vague,  incomplete,  and  inconsequent  actions  which 
physiologists  notice  in  all  persons  wrecked  bj"  grief.   ' 

Observing  symptoms  of  deep  depression  in  his  client, 
Derville  hastened  to  say:  ''Take  courage;  the  issue 
of  the  affair  must  be  favorable  to  you  in  some  way  or 
other.  Only,  examine  your  own  mind  and  see  if  you 
can  place  implicit  trust  in  me,  and  accept  blindly  the 
course  that  I  shall  think  best  for  you." 

**  Do  what  you  will,"  said  Chabert 

"  Yes,  but  will  you  surrender  yourself  to  me  com- 
pletely, like  a  man  marching  to  his  death  ?  " 

''  Am  I  to  live  without  a  status  and  without  a  name? 
Is  that  bearable  ?  " 

10 


146  Colonel  Chabert, 

"  I  don't  mean  that,"  said  the  lawyer.  "  We  will 
bring  an  amicable  suit  to  annul  the  record  of  your 
decease,  and  also  your  marriage  ;  then  you  will  resume 
your  rights.  You  could  even  be,  through  Comte 
Ferraud's  influence,  restored  to  the  army  with  the 
rank  of  general,  and  you  would  certainly  obtain  a 
pension." 

"Well,  go  on,  then,"  replied  Chabert;  "I  trust 
implicitly  to  you." 

"  I  will  send  you  a  power-of- attorney  to  sign,"  said 
Derville.  *'  Adieu,  keep  up  your  courage ;  if  you  want 
money  let  me  know." 

Chabert  wrung  the  lawyer's  hand,  and  stood  with  his 
back  against  the  wall,  unable  to  follow  him  except  with 
his  eyes.  During  this  conference  the  face  of  a  man  had 
every  now  and  then  looked  round  one  of  the  gate  pil- 
lars, behind  which  its  owner  was  posted  waiting  for 
Derville's  departure.  The  man  now  accosted  the  young 
lawyer.  He  was  old,  and  he  wore  a  blue  jacket,  a 
pleated  white  smock  like  those  worn  by  brewers,  and 
on  his  head  a  cap  of  otter  fur.  His  face  was  brown, 
hollow,  and  wrinkled,  but  red  at  the  cheek-bones  from 
hard  work  and  exposure  to  the  weather. 

**  Excuse  me,  monsieur,  if  I  take  the  liberty  of 
speaking  to  you,"  he  said,  touching  Derville  on  the 
arm.  "  But  I  supposed  when  I  saw  you  that  you 
were  the  general's  friend." 


Colonel  Chahert.  147 

"Well,"  said  Derville,  **  what  interest  have  you  iu 
him?    Who  are  you?  "  added  the  distrustful  lawyer. 

''I  am  Louis  Vergniaud,"  answered  the  man,  '*and 
I  want  to  have  a  word  with  you." 

•'  Then  it  is  you  who  lodge  the  Comte  Chabert  in  this 
way,  is  it?" 

'*  Pardon  it,  monsieur.  He  has  the  best  room  in  the 
house.  I  would  have  given  him  mine  if  I  had  had  one, 
and  slept  myself  in  the  stable.  A  man  who  has  suffered 
as  he  has  and  who  is  teaching  my  kids  to  read,  a  gen- 
eral, an  Eg3'ptian,  the  fii*st  lieutenant  under  whom  I 
served, — why,  all  I  have  is  his!  I've  shared  all 
with  him.  Unluckily  it  is  so  little,  —  bread  and  milk 
and  eggs  !  However,  when  you  *re  on  a  campaign  jou 
must  live  with  the  mess ;  and  little  as  it  is,  it  is 
given  with  a  full  heart,  monsieur.  But  he  has  vexed 
us." 

"  He  I " 

"  Yes,  monsieur,  vexed  us ;  there 's  no  going  behind 
that.  I  took  this  establishment,  which  is  more  than  I 
can  manage,  and  he  saw  that.  It  troubled  him,  and  he 
would  do  my  work  and  take  care  of  the  horse  !  I  kept 
rtaying  to  him,  'No,  no,  my  general!*  But  there!  he 
only  answered,  '  Am  I  a  lazybones?  don't  I  know  how 
to  put  my  shoulder  to  the  wheel  ? '  So  I  gave  notes  for 
the  value  of  my  cow-house  to  a  man  named  Grados. 
Do  you  know  him,  monsieur?" 


148  Colonel  CJiabert. 

*'  But,  my  good  friend,  I  have  n*t  the  time  to  listen 
to  all  this.  Tell  me  only  how  Colonel  Chabert  vexed 
you." 

''  He  did  vex  us,  monsieur,  just  as  true  as  my  name 
is  Louis  Vergniaud,  and  my  wife  cried  about  it.  He 
heard  from,  the  neighbors  that  I  couldn't  meet  that 
note ;  and  the  old  fellow,  without  a  word  to  us,  took 
all  you  gave  him,  and,  little  by  little,  paid  the  note  I 
Wasn't  it  a  trick !  My  wife  and  I  knew  he  went  with- 
out tobacco  all  that  time,  poor  old  man !  But  now, 
j^es,  he  has  the  cigars,  — I  'd  sell  my  own  self  sooner! 
But  it  does  vex  us.  Now,  I  propose  to  you  to  lend  me 
on  this  establishment  three  hundred  francs,  so  that  we 
may  get  him  some  clothes  and  furnish  his  room.  He 
thinks  he  has  paid  us,  doesn't  he?  Well,  the  truth  is, 
he  has  made  us  his  debtors.  Yes,  he  has  vexed  us ; 
he  shouldn't  have  played  us  such  a  trick,  —  wasn't  it 
almost  an  insult?  Such  friends  as  we  are!  As  true 
as  my  name  is  Louis  Vergniaud,  I  will  mortgage  myself 
rather  than  not  return  you  that  money." 

Derville  looked  at  the  cow-keeper,  then  he  made  a 
step  backward  and  looked  at  the  house,  the  j^ard,  the 
the  manure,  the  stable,  the  rabbits,  and  the  children. 

*'  Faith !  "  thought  he  to  himself,  "I  do  believe  one  of 
the  characteristics  of  virtue  is  to  own  nothing.  Yes," 
he  said  aloud,  "3^ou  shall  have  your  three  hundred 
francs,  and  more  too.    But  it  is  not  I  who  give  them 


Colonel  Chabert.  149 

to  you,  it  is  the  colonel ;  he  will  be  rich  enough  to  help 
3'ou,  and  I  shall  not  deprive  him  of  that  pleasure." 

*' Will  it  be  soon?" 

**  Yes,  soon." 

**  Good  God !  how  happy  my  wife  will  be."  The 
tanned  face  of  the  cow-keeper  brightened  into  joy. 

"Now,"  thought  Derville  as  he  jumped  into  his 
cabriolet,  *'to  face  the  enemy.  She  must  not  see  our 
game,  but  we  must  know  hers,  and  win  it  at  one  trick. 
She  is  a  woman.  What  are  women  most  afraid  of  ? 
Why,  of—" 

He  began  to  study  the  countess's  position,  and  fell 
into  one  of  those  deep  reveries  to  which  great  poli- 
ticians are  prone  when  they  prepare  their  plans  and  try 
to  guess  the  secrets  of  foreign  powers.  Lawyers  are, 
in  a  way,  statesmen,  to  whom  the  management  of  indi- 
vidual interests  is  intrusted.  A  glance  at  the  situ- 
ation of  Monsieur  le  Comte  Ferraud  and  his  wife  is 
necessary  for  a  full  comprehension  of  the  law^'er's 
genius. 

Monsieur  le  Comte  Ferraud  was  the  son  of  a  former 
councillor  of  the  parliament  of  Paris,  who  had  emigrated 
during  the  Terror,  and  who,  though  he  saved  his  head, 
lost  his  property.  He  returned  to  f'rance  under  the 
Consulate,  and  remained  faithful  to  the  interests  of 
Louis  XVIIL,  in  whose  suite  his  father  had  been  before 
the  Revolution.     His  son,  therefore,  belonged  to  that 


150  Colonel  Chahert, 

section  of  the  faubourg  Saint-Germain  which  nobly  re- 
sisted the  Napoleonic  seductions.  The  young  count's 
reputation  for  good  sense  and  sagacity  when  he  was 
called  simpl}^  '^  Monsieur  Ferraud  "  made  him  the  object 
of  a  few  imperial  blandishments  ;  for  the  Emperor  took 
as  much  satisfaction  in  his  conquests  over  the  aris- 
tocracy as  he  did  in  winning  a  battle.  The  count  was 
promised  the  restitution  of  his  title,  also  that  of  all 
his  property  which  was  not  sold,  and  hopes  were  held 
out  of  a  ministry  in  the  future,  and  a  senatorship.  The 
Emperor  failed.  At  the  time  of  Comte  Chabert's  death 
Monsieur  Ferraud  was  a  3'oung  man  twentj'-six  years 
of  age,  without  fortune,  agreeable  in  appearance  and 
manner,  and  a  social  success,  whom  the  faubourg  Saint- 
Germain  adopted  as  one  of  its  distinguished  figures. 

Madame  la  Comtesse  Chabert  had  managed  the 
property  derived  from  her  late  husband  so  well  that 
after  a  widowhood  of  eighteen  months  she  possessed 
an  income  of  nearly  forty  thousand  francs  a  year. 
Her  marriage  with  the  young  count  was  not  regarded 
as  news  by  the  coteries  of  the  faubourg.  Napoleon, 
who  was  pleased  with  an  alliance  which  met  his  ideas 
of  fusion,  returned  to  Madame  Chabeii;  the  monej" 
derived  by  the  Treasury  from  her  late  husband's  estate  ; 
but  here  again  Napoleon's  hopes  were  foiled.  Madame 
Ferraud  not  only  adored  a  lover  in  the  3^oung  man,  but 
she  was  attracted  by  the  idea  of  entering  that  haughty 


Colonel  Chahert,  151 

society  which,  in  spite  of  its  political  abasement,  was 
still  far  above  that  of  the  imperial  court.  Her  various 
vanities  as  well  as  her  passions  were  gratified  by  this 
marriage.  She  felt  she  was  about  to  become  *'an 
elegant  woman." 

When  the  faubourg  Saint-Germain  ascertained  that 
the  3'oung  count's  maniage  was  not  a  defection  from 
their  ranks,  all  salons  were  opened  to  his  wife.  The 
Restoration  took  place.  The  political  fortunes  of  the 
Comte  Ferraud  made  no  rapid  strides.  He  understood 
very  well  the  exigencies  of  Louis  XVIII.'s  position ; 
he  was  one  of  the  initiated  who  waited  until  ''the 
revolutionary  gulf  was  closed,"  —  a  royal  phrase  which 
the  liberals  laughed  at,  but  which,  nevertheless,  hid  a 
deep  political  meaning.  However,  the  ordinance  with 
its  long-winded  clerical  phrases  quoted  by  Godeschal 
in  the  first  pages  of  this  story  restored  to  the  Comte 
Ferraud  two  forests  and  an  estate  which  had  risen  in 
value  during  its  sequestration.  At  the  period  of  which 
we  write  Comte  Ferraud  was  councillor  of  State,  also 
a  director-general,  and  he  considered  his  position  as  no 
more  than  the  opening  of  his  political  career.  Ab- 
sorbed in  the  pursuit  of  an  eager  ambition,  he  depended 
much  on  his  secretary,  a  ruined  law^^er  named  Delbecq, 
—  a  man  who  was  more  than  able,  one  who  knew  every 
possible  resource  of  pettifogging  sophistry,  to  whom 
the  count  left  the  management  of  all  his  private  aflfairs. 


152  Colonel  ChaheH. 

This  clever  practitioner  understood  his  position  in  the 
count's  household  far  too  well  not  to  Ije  honest  out  of 
policy.  He  hoped  for  some  place  under  government 
through  the  influence  of  his  patron,  whose  propertj^  he 
took  care  of  to  the  best  of  his  ability.  His  conduct  so 
completely  refuted  the  dark  story  of  his  earlier  life 
that  he  was  now  thought  to  be  a  calumniated  man. 

The  countess,  however,  with  the  shrewd  tact  of  a 
woman,  fathomed  the  secretary,  watched  him  carefully, 
and  knew  so  well  how  to  manage  him,  that  she  had 
already  largely  increased  her  fortune  by  his  help.  She 
contrived  to  convince  Delbecq  that  she  ruled  Monsieur 
Ferraud,  and  promised  that  she  would  get  him  made 
judge  of  a  municipal  court  in  one  of  the  most  impor- 
tant cities  in  France  if  he  devoted  himself  wholly  to 
her  interests.  The  promise  of  an  irremovable  office, 
which  would  enable  him  to  marry  advantageously  and 
improve  his  political  career  until  he  became  in  the  end 
a  deputy,  made  Delbecq  Madame  Ferraud's  abject  tool. 
His  watchfulness  enabled  her  to  profit  by  all  those 
lucky  chances  which  the  fiuctuations  of  the  Bourse 
and  the  rise  of  property  in  Paris  during  the  first  three 
3'ears  of  the  Restoration  offered  to  clever  manipula- 
tors of  money.  Delbecq  had  tripled  her  capital  with  all 
the  more  ease  because  his  plans  commended  them- 
selves to  the  countess  as  a  rapid  method  of  making 
her  fortune  enormous.     She  spent  the  emoluments  of 


Colonel  Chahert,  153 

the  count's  various  offices  on  the  household  expenses, 
80  as  to  invest  every  penny  of  her  own  income,  and 
Delbecq  aided  and  abetted  this  avarice  without  inquir- 
ing into  its  motives.  Men  of  his  kind  care  nothing 
for  the  discovery  of  any  secrets  that  do  not  affect  their 
own  interests.  Besides,  he  accounted  for  it  naturally  by 
that  thirst  for  gold  which  possesses  nearl}'  all  Parisian 
women  ;  and  as  he  knew  how  large  a  fortune  Comte  Fer- 
raud's  ambitions  needed  to  support  them,  he  sometimes 
fancied  that  he  saw  in  the  countess's  greed  a  sign  of 
her  devotion  to  a  man  with  whom  she  was  still  in  love. 

Madame  Ferraud  buried  the  motives  of  her  conduct 
in  the  depths  of  her  own  heart  There  lay  the  secrets 
of  life  and  death  to  her ;  there  is  the  kernel  of  our 
present  history. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  year  1818  the  Restoration 
was  established  on  an  apparently  firm  and  immovable 
basis ;  its  governmental  doctrines,  as  understood  by 
superior  minds,  seemed  likely  to  lead  France  into  an 
era  of  renewed  prosperity.  Then  it  was  that  society 
changed  front.  Madame  la  Comtesse  Ferraud  found 
that  she  had  made  a  marriage  of  love  and  wealth  and 
ambition.  Still  young  and  beautiful,  she  played  the 
part  of  a  woman  of  fashion  and  lived  in  the  court  at- 
mosphere. Rich  herself,  and  rich  through  her  husband, 
who  had  the  credit  of  being  one  of  the  ablest  men  of 
the  royalist  party,  a  friend  of  the  king  and  likely  to 


154  Colonel  Chabert. 

become  a  minister,  she  belonged  to  the  aristocracy  and 
shared  its  glamour. 

In  the  midst  of  this  triumphant  prosperity  a  moral 
cancer  fastened  upon  her.  Men  have  feelings  which 
women  guess  in  spite  of  every  effort  made  by  such  men 
to  bury  them.  At  the  time  of  the  king's  first  return 
Comte  Ferraud  was  conscious  of  some  regrets  for  his 
marriage.  The  widow  of  Colonel  Chabert  had  brought 
him  no  useful  connections ;  he  was  alone  and  without 
influence,  to  make  his  way  in  a  career  full  of  obstacles 
and  full  of  enemies.  Then,  perhaps,  after  he  had  coolly 
judged  his  wife,  he  saw  certain  defects  of  education 
which  made  her  unsuitable,  and  unable,  to  further  his 
projects.  A  word  he  once  said  about  Tallej-rand's  mar- 
riage enlightened  the  countess  and  showed  her  that  if 
the  past  had  to  be  done  over  again  he  would  never 
make  her  his  wife.  What  woman  would  forgive  that 
regret,  containing  as  it  did,  the  germs  of  all  insults, 
na}^,  of  all  crimes  and  all  repudiations! 

Let  us  conceive  the  wound  that  this  discovery  made 
in  the  heart  of  a  woman  who  feared  the  return  of  her 
first  husband.  She  knew  that  he  lived ;  she  had  re- 
pulsed him.  Then,  for  a  short  time,  she  heard  no  more 
of  him,  and  took  comfort  in  the  hope  that  he  was  killed 
at  Waterloo  together  with  the  imperial  eagles  and  Bou- 
tin. She  then  conceived  the  idea  of  binding  her  second 
husband  to  her  by  the  strongest  of  ties,  by  a  chain  of 


Colonel  Chahert,  166 

gold ;  and  she  determined  to  be  so  rich  that  her  great 
fortune  should  make  that  second  marriage  indissoluble 
if  by  chance  Comte  Chabert  reappeared.  He  had  reap- 
peared ;  and  she  was  unable  to  understand  why  the 
struggle  she  so  much  dreaded  was  not  begun.  Per- 
haps the  man*s  sufferings,  perhaps  an  illness  had  de- 
livered her  from  him.  Perhaps  he  was  half-crazy  and 
Charenton  might  restore  his  reason.  She  was  not  wil- 
ling to  set  Delbecq  or  the  police  on  his  traces,  for  fear 
of  putting  herself  in  their  power,  or  bringing  on  a  ca- 
tastrophe. There  are  many  women  in  Paris  who,  like 
the  Comtesse  Ferraud,  are  living  secretly  with  moral 
monsters,  or  skirting  the  edges  of  some  abyss ;  they 
make  for  themselves  a  callus  over  the  region  of  their 
wound  and  still  continue  to  laugh  and  be  amused. 

"There  is  something  very  singular  in  Comte  Fer- 
raud's  situation,"  said  Derville  to  himself,  after  long 
meditation,  as  the  cabriolet  stopped  before  the  gate  of 
the  h6tel  Ferraud  in  the  rue  de  Varennes.  *'  How  is  it 
that  he,  so  wealthy  and  a  favorite  of  the  king,  is  not  al- 
ready a  peer  of  France  ?  Perhaps  Madame  de  Grandlieu 
is  right  in  saying  that  the  king's  policy  is  to  give  higher 
importance  to  the  peerage  by  not  lavishing  it.  Besides, 
the  son  of  a  councillor  of  the  old  parliament  is  neither 
a  Crillon  nor  a  Rohan.  Comte  Ferraud  can  enter  the 
upper  Chamber  onlj',  as  it  were,  on  sufferance.  But  if 
liis  marriage  were  ruptured  would  n't  it  be  a  satisfao- 


156  Colonel  Chabert. 

tion  to  the  king  if  the  peerage  of  some  of  those  old 
senators  who  have  daughters  only  could  descend  to 
him?  Certainly  that's  a  pretty  good  fear  to  dangle 
before  the  countess,"  thought  Derville,  as  he  went  up 
the  steps  of  the  hotel  Ferraud. 

Without  knowing  it  the  lawyer  had  laid  his  finger  on 
the  secret  wound,  he  had  plunged  his  hand  into  the  can- 
cer that  was  destroying  Madame  Ferraud's  life.  She 
received  him  in  a  pretty  winter  dining-room,  where  she 
was  breakfasting  and  playing  with  a  monkey,  which  was 
fastened  by  a  chain  to  a  sort  of  little  post  with  iron 
bars.  The  countess  was  wrapped  in  an  elegant  morn- 
ing-gown ;  the  curls  of  her  pretty  hair,  carelessly  caught 
up,  escaped  from  a  little  cap  which  gave  her  a  piquant 
air.  She  was  fresh  and  smiling.  The  table  glittered 
with  the  silver-gilt  service,  the  plate,  the  mother-of- 
pearl  articles ;  rare  plants  were  about  her,  growing  in 
splendid  porcelain  vases. 

As  the  lawyer  looked  at  Comte  Chabert's  wife,  rich 
with  his  property,  surrounded  by  luxury,  and  she  her- 
self at  the  apex  of  society,  while  the  unhappy  husband 
lived  with  the  beasts  in  a  cow-house,  he  said  to  him- 
self: *'  The  moral  of  this  is  that  a  pretty  woman  will 
never  acknowledge  a  husband,  nor  even  a  lover,  in  a 
man  with  an  old  topcoat,  a  shabby  wig,  and  broken 
boots."  A  bitter  and  satirical  smile  expressed  the 
half-philosophic,  half-sarcastic    ideas    that    necessarily 


Colonel  Chabert.  157 

come  to  a  man  who  is  so  placed  that  he  sees  to  the 
bottom  of  things  in  spite  of  the  Hes  under  which  so  many 
Parisian  families  hide  their  existence. 

'*  Good  morning,  Monsieur  Derville,"  said  the  count- 
ess, continuing  to  make  the  monkey  drink  coffee. 

"  Madame/'  he  said,  abruptl}',  for  he  was  offended  at 
the  careless  tone  in  which  the  countess  greeted  him. 
**  I  have  come  to  talk  to  you  on  a  serious  matter." 

*'0h!  I  am  so  very  sorry,  but  the  count  is  ab- 
sent —  " 

*'  I  am  glad,  madame ;  for  he  would  be  out  of  place 
at  this  conference.  Besides,  I  know  from  Delbecq  that 
you  prefer  to  do  business  yourself,  without  troubling 
Monsieur  le  comte." 

"  Very  good ;  then  I  will  send  for  Delbecq,"  she 
said. 

"  He  could  do  you  no  good,  clever  as  he  is,"  re- 
turned Derville.  ''Listen  to  me,  madame;  one  word 
will  suffice  to  make  you  serious.  Comte  Chabert  is 
living." 

"  Do  3'ou  expect  me  to  be  serious  when  you  talk 
such  nonsense  as  that?"  she  said,  bursting  into  a  fit 
of  laughter. 

But  the  countess  was  suddenly  subdued  by  the 
strange  lucidity  of  the  fixed  look  with  which  Derville 
questioned  her,  seeming  to  read  into  the  depths  of  her 
'soul. 


158  Colonel  Chahert, 

"  Madame,"  he  replied,  with  cold  and  incisive  gravity, 
''you  are  not  aware  of  the  dangers  of  your  position. 
I  do  not  speak  of  the  undeniable  authenticity  of  the 
papers  in  the  case,  nor  of  the  positive  proof  that  can 
be  brought  of  Comte  Chabert's  existence.  I  am  not 
a  man,  as  you  know,  to  take  charge  of  a  hopeless 
case.  If  you  oppose  our  steps  to  prove  the  falsity 
of  the  death-record,  you  will  certainly  lose  that  first 
suit,  and  that  question  once  settled  in  our  favor  de- 
termines all  the  others." 

"  Then,  what  do  you  wish  to  speak  of?" 

*'  Not  of  the  colonel,  nor  of  you  ;  neither  shall  I  re- 
mind you  of  the  costs  a  clever  lawyer  in  possession 
of  all  the  facts  of  the  case  might  charge  upon  you, 
nor  of  the  game  such  a  man  could  play  with  those 
letters  which  you  received  from  your  first  husband 
before  you  married  your  second  —  " 

"It  is  false!"  she  cried,  with  the  violence  of  a 
spoilt  beauty.  ''  I  have  never  received  a  letter  from 
Comte  Chabert.  If  any  one  calls  himself  the  colonel 
he  is  a  swindler,  a  galley-slave  perhaps,  like  Cogniard  ; 
it  makes  me  shudder  to  think  of  it.  How  can  the  colo- 
nel come  to  life  again?  Bonaparte  himself  sent  me 
condolences  on  his  death  by  an  aid-de-camp ;  and  I 
now  draw  a  pension  of  three  thousand  francs  granted 
to  his  widow  by  the  Chambers.  I  have  every  right  to 
reject  all  Chaberts  past,  present,  and  to  come." 


Colonel  Chabert.  159 

"  Happily  we  are  alone,  madame,  and  we  can  lie  at 
our  ease,"  he  said,  coldl}^,  inwardly  amused  by  inciting 
the  anger  which  shook  the  countess,  for  the  purpose 
of  forcing  her  into  some  betrayal,  —  a  trick  familiar  to 
all  law3'ers,  who  remain  calm  and  impassible  themselves 
when  their  clients  or  their  adversaries  get  angry. 

'*  Now  then,  to  measure  swords  I "  he  said  to  him- 
self, thinking  of  a  trap  he  could  lay  to  force  her  to 
show  her  weakness.  ' '  The  proof  that  Colonel  Chabert's 
first  letter  reached  you  exists,  madame,"  he  said  aloud. 
*'  It  contained  a  draft." 

*'  No,  it  did  not ;  there  was  no  draft,"  she  said. 

*'  Then  the  letter  did  reach  you,"  continued  Derville, 
smiling.  "You  are  caught  in  the  first  trap  a  lawyer 
laj'S  for  you,  and  3'et  3'ou  think  you  can  fight  the 
law ! " 

The  countess  blushed,  turned  pale,  and  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands.  Then  she  shook  off  her  shame,  and  said, 
with  the  coolness  which  belongs  to  women  of  her  class, 
*'  As  you  are  the  lawyer  of  the  impostor  Chabert,  have 
the  goodness  to  —  " 

"  Madame,"  said  Derville,  interrupting  her,  "I  am 
at  this  moment  your  lawyer  as  well  as  the  colonel's. 
Do  you  think  I  wish  to  lose  a  client  as  valuable  to  me 
as  you  are  ?     But  3'Ou  are  not  listening  to  me." 

"  Go  on,  monsieur,"  she  said,  graciousl3\ 

"  Your  fortune  came  from  Monsieur  le  Comte  Cha- 


IGO  Colonel  Chabert, 

bert,  and  you  have  repudiated  him.  Your  property  is 
colossal,  and  you  let  him  starve.  Madame,  law3'ers 
can  be  very  eloquent  when  their  cases  are  eloquent ; 
here  are  circumstances  which  can  raise  the  hue-and-cry 
of  public  opinion  against  3"0U." 

"  But,  Monsieur,"  said  the  countess,  irritated  by  the 
manner  in  which  Derville  turned  and  returned  her  on 
his  gridiron,  "  admitting  that  your  Monsieur  Chabert 
exists,  the  courts  will  sustain  my  second  marriage  on 
account  of  my  children,  and  I  shall  get  off  by  repaying 
two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  francs  to  Monsieur 
Chabert." 

*'  Madame,  there  is  no  telling  how  a  court  of  law 
may  view  a  matter  of  feeling.     If,  on  the  one  hand, 
we  have  a  mother  and  two  children,  on  the  other  there 
is  a  man  overwhelmed  by  undeserved  misfortune,  aged 
by  you,  left  to  starve  by  your  rejection.     Besides,  the 
judges  cannot  go  against  the  law.     Your  marriage  with 
the  colonel  puts  the  law  on  his  side ;  he  has  the  prior 
right.     But,  if  you  appear  in  such  an  odious  light  you 
may  find  an  adversary  joxx  little  expect.     That,  ma- 
dame,  is  the  danger  I  came  to  warn  you  of." 
*'  Another  adversary ! "  she  said,  "  who?" 
''  Monsieur  le  Comte  Ferraud,  madame." 
"Monsieur  Ferraud  is  too  deepW  attached  to  me, 
and  respects  the  mother  of  his  children  too  —  " 
*' Ah,  madame,"  said  Derville,  interrupting  her,  "why 


Colonel  Chabert,  161 

talk  such  nonsense  to  a  lawyer  who  can  read  hearts. 
At  the  present  moment  Monsieur  Ferraud  has  not  the 
slightest  desire  to  annul  his  marriage,  and  I  have  no 
doubt  he  adores  you.  But  if  some  one  went  to  him 
and  told  him  that  his  marriage  could  be  annulled,  that 
his  wife  would  be  arraigned  before  the  bar  of  public 
opinion  —  " 

'*  He  would  defend  me,  monsieur." 

"  No,  madame." 

"  What  reason  would  he  have  for  deserting  me?  ** 

*'  That  of  marrying  the  only  daughter  of  some  peer 
of  France,  whose  title  would  descend  to  him  by  the 
king's  decree." 

The  countess  turned  pale. 

"  I  have  her !  "  thought  Derville.  *'  Good,  the  poor 
colonel's  cause  is  won.  Moreover,  madame,"  he  said 
aloud,  "  Monsieur  Ferraud  will  feel  the  less  regret  be- 
cause a  man  covered  with  glory,  a  general,  a  count, 
a  grand  officer  of  the  Legion  of  honor,  is  certainly 
not  a  derogation  to  you,  —  if  such  a  man  asks  for  his 
wife  —  " 

**  Enough,  enough,  monsieur,"  she  cried ;  **  I  can  have 
no  lawyer  but  you.    What  must  I  do.?  " 

*'  Compromise." 

*'  Does  he  still  love  me?  " 

"  How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  " 

At  these  words  the  countess  threw  up  her  head.    A 
11 


162  Colonel  Chabert, 

gleam  of  hope  shone  in  her  eyes ;  perhaps  she  thought 
of  speculating  on  her  husband's  tenderness  and  winning 
her  way  by  some  female  wile. 

"  I  shall  await  your  orders,  madame ;  you  will  let 
me  know  whether  we  are  to  serve  notices  of  Comte 
Chabert's  suit  upon  you,  or  whether  you  will  come  to 
my  office  and  arrange  the  basis  of  a  compromise,"  said 
Derville,  bowing  as  he  left  the  room. 

Eight  days  after  these  visits  paid  by  Derville,  on  a 
fine  June  morning,  the  husband  and  wife,  parted  by  an 
almost  supernatural  circumstance,  were  making  their 
way  from  the  opposite  extremes  of  Paris,  to  meet  again 
in  the  ofl3ce  of  their  mutual  law3'er.  Certain  liberal 
advances  made  by  Derville  to  the  colonel  enabled  the 
latter  to  clothe  himself  in  accordance  with  his  rank. 
He  came  in  a  clean  cab.  His  head  was  covered  with 
a  suitable  wig ;  he  was  dressed  in  dark-blue  cloth  and 
spotlesslj'  white  linen,  and  he  wore  beneath  his  waist- 
coat the  broad  red  ribbon  of  the  grand  officers  of  the 
Legion  of  honor.  In  resuming  the  dress  and  the 
habits  of  affluence  he  had  also  recovered  his  former 
martial  elegance.  He  walked  erect.  His  face,  grave 
and  mysterious,  and  bearing  the  signs  of  happiness 
and  renewed  hope,  seemed  younger  and  fuller ;  he  was 
no  more  like  the  old  Chabert  in  the  top-coat  than  a  two- 
sous  piece  is  like  a  forty -franc  coin  just  issued.    All 


Colonel  Chabert.  163 

who  passed  him  knew  him  at  once  for  a  noble  relic  of 
our  old  arm}',  one  of  those  heroic  men  on  whom  the 
light  of  our  national  glory  shines,  who  reflect  it,  as 
shattered  glass  illuminated  by  the  sun  returns  a  thou- 
sand rays.  Such  old  soldiers  are  books  and  pictures 
too. 

The  count  sprang  from  the  carriage  to  enter  Derville's 
office  with  the  agility  of  a  young  man.  The  cab  bad 
hardly  turned  away  before  a  prett}^  coup^  with  armorial 
bearings  drove  up.  Madame  la  Comtesse  Ferraud  got 
out  of  it  in  a  simple  dress,  but  one  well  suited  to  dis- 
play her  3'outhful  figure.  She  wore  a  pretty  drawn 
bonnet  lined  with  pink,  which  framed  her  face  delight- 
fully, concealed  its  exact  outline,  and  restored  its 
freshness. 

Though  the  clients  were  thus  rejuvenated,  the  office 
remained  its  old  self,  such  as  we  saw  it  when  this 
history  began.  Simonnin  was  eating  his  breakfast, 
one  shoulder  leaning  against  the  window,  which  was 
now  open;  he  was  gazing  at  the  blue  sky  above  the 
courtyard  formed  by  four  blocks  of  black  buildings. 

"  Ha  !  "  cried  the  gutter-jumper,  '*  who  wants  to  bet 
a  play  now  that  Colonel  Chabert  is  a  general  and  a 
red-ribbon  ?  " 

**  Derville  is  a  downright  magician,"  said  GodeschaL 

'* There's  no  trick  to  play  him  this  time,"  said 
Desroches. 


164  Colonel  Chahert. 

'^His  wife  will  do  that,  the  Comtesse  Ferraud,"  said 
Boucard. 

'*  Then  she  '11  have  to  belong  to  two  —  " 

*'  Here  she  is !  "  cried  Simounin. 

Just  then  the  colonel  came  in  and  asked  for  Derville. 

*'  He  is  in,  Monsieur  le  Comte,"  said  Simonnin. 

*'  So  you  are  not  deaf,  you  young  scamp,"  said 
Chabert,  catching  the  gutter-jumper  by  the  ear  and 
twisting  it,  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  the  other  clerks, 
who  laughed  and  looked  at  the  colonel  with  the  inquisi- 
tive interest  due  to  so  singular  a  personage. 

Colonel  Chabert  was  in  Derville's  room  when  his 
wife  entered  the  office. 

"  Sa}',  Boucard,  what  a  queer  scene  there's  going  to 
be  in  the  master's  room !  She  can  live  the  even  da3's 
with  Comte  Ferraud,  and  the  uneven  days  with  Comte 
Chabert  —  " 

"  Leap-3^ear  the  colonel  will  gain,"  said  Godeschal. 

"Hold  your  tongues,  gentlemen,"  said  Boucard,  se- 
verely. "  You'll  be  overheard.  I  never  knew  an  office 
in  which  the  clerks  made  such  fun  of  the  clients  as  you 
do  here." 

Derville  had  put  the  colonel  into  an  adjoining  room 
by  the  time  the  countess  was  ushered  in. 

"Madame,"  he  said  to  her,  "not  knowing  if  it  would 
be  agreeable  to  you  to  meet  Monsieur  le  Comte  Chabert, 
I  have  separated  you.     If,  however,  you  wish  —  " 


Colonel  Chabert,  165 

**  I  thank  you  for  that  consideration,  monsieur." 

*'  I  have  prepared  the  draught  of  an  agreement,  the 
conditions  of  which  can  be  discussed  here  and  now,  be- 
tween you  and  Monsieur  Chabert.  I  will  go  from  one  to 
the  other  and  convey  the  remarks  of  each." 

''  Begin,  monsieur,"  said  the  countess,  showing  signs 
of  impatience. 

Derville  read:  ''Between  the  undersigned,  —  Mon- 
sieur Hyacinthe,  called  Chabert,  count,  brigadier-gen- 
eral, and  grand  officer  of  the  Legion  of  honor,  living 
in  Paris,  in  the  rue  du  Petit-Banquier,  of  the  first  part, 
and  Madame  Rose  Chapotel,  wife  of  the  above-named 
Monsieur  le  Comte  Chabert,  born  —  " 

"  That  will  do,"  she  said ;  ''  skip  the  preamble  and 
come  to  the  conditions." 

*'  Madame,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  the  preamble  explains 
succinctly  the  position  which  you  hold  to  each  other. 
Then,  in  article  one,  you  recognize  in  presence  of  three 
witnesses,  namely,  two  notaries,  and  the  cow-keeper 
with  whom  your  husband  lives,  to  all  of  whom  I  have 
confided  your  secret  and  who  will  keep  it  faithfully,  — 
you  recognize,  I  sa}',  that  the  individual  mentioned  in 
the  accompanying  deeds  and  whose  identity"  is  else- 
where established  by  affidavits  prepared  b}^  Alexander 
Crottat,  your  notary,  is  the  Comte  Chabert,  your  first 
husband.  In  article  two  Comte  Chabert,  for  the  sake 
of  your  welfare,  agrees  to  make  no  use  of  his  rights 


166  Colonel   Chahert. 

except  under  circumstances  provided  for  in  the  agree- 
ment,—  and  those  circumstances,"  remarked  Derville  in  a 
parenthesis,  "  are  the  non-fulfilment  of  the  clauses  of 
this  private  agreement.  Monsieur  Chabert,  on  his 
part,"  he  continued,  "  consents  to  sue  with  you  for  a 
judgment  which  shall  set  aside  the  record  of  his  death, 
and  also  dissolve  his  marriage.  " 

''But  that  will  not  suit  me  at  all,"  said  the  countess, 
astonished  ;  "  I  don't  wish  a  lawsuit,  you  know  why." 

"  In  article  three,"  continued  the  lawyer,  with  imper- 
turbable coolness,  "  3'ou  agree  to  secure  to  the  said 
Hyacinthe,  Comte  Chabert,  an  annuity  of  twent^^-four 
thousand  francs  now  invested  in  the  public  Funds,  the 
capital  of  which  will  devolve  on  you  at  his  death." 

"  But  that  is  far  too  dear !  "  cried  the  countess. 

"  Can  you  compromise  for  less?  " 

"  Perhaps  so." 

"  What  is  it  you  want,  madame?  " 

"  I  want  —  I  don't  want  a  suit.     I  want  —  " 

"  To  keep  him  dead,"  said  Derville,  quicklj^ 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  countess,  "  if  he  asks  twent}'- 
four  thousand  francs  a  3'ear,  I  '11  demand  justice." 

"  Yes,  justice  !  "  cried  a  hollow  voice,  as  the  colonel 
opened  the  door  and  appeared  suddenly  before  his  wife, 
with  one  hand  in  his  waistcoat  and  the  other  pointing 
to  the  floor,  a  gesture  to  which  the  memory  of  his  great 
disaster  gave  a  horrible  meaning. 


Colonel  Chahert,  167 

*'  It  is  he !  "  said  the  countess  in  her  own  mind. 

"Too  dear?"  continued  the  old  soldier,  "I  gave 
you  a  million  and  now  you  trade  on  my  poverty.  Well, 
then,  I  will  have  you  and  m}'  property  both ;  our  mar- 
riage is  not  void." 

''  But  monsieur  is  not  Colonel  Chabert!  "  cried  the 
countess,  feigning  surprise. 

*'  Ah ! "  said  the  old  man,  in  a  tone  of  irony,  *'  do 
you  want  proofs?  Well,  did  I  not  take  you  from  the 
pavements  of  the  Palais-Ro}- al  ?  " 

The  countess  turned  pale.  Seeing  her  color  fade  be- 
neath her  rouge,  the  old  soldier,  Qoxvy  for  the  suffering  he 
was  inflicting  on  a  woman  he  had  once  loved  ardently, 
stopped  short ;  but  she  gave  him  such  a  venomous  look 
that  he  suddenly  added,  "  You  were  with  —  " 

*'  For  heaven's  sake,  monsieur,"  said  the  countess, 
appealing  to  the  lawyer,  "  allow  me  to  leave  this  place. 
I  did  not  come  here  to  listen  to  such  insults." 

She  left  the  room.  Derville  sprang  into  the  oflSce 
after  her;  but  she  seemed  to  have  taken  wings  and 
was  already  gone.  When  he  returned  to  his  own 
room  he  found  the  colonel  walking  up  and  down  in 
a  paroxysm  of  rage. 

"  In  those  days  men  took  their  wives  where  they 
liked,"  he  said.  ''But  I  chose  ill;  I  ought  never  to 
have  trusted  her ;  she  has  no  heart !  " 

''  Colonel,  3'ou  will  admit  I  was  right  in  begging  you 


168  Colonel  Chahert. 

not  to  come  here !  I  am  now  certain  of  your  identity. 
When  you  came  in  the  countess  made  a  little  move- 
ment the  meaning  of  which  was  not  to  be  doubted. 
But  you  have  lost  your  cause.  Your  wife  now  knows 
that  you  are  unrecognizable." 

''  I  will  kill  her." 

''  Nonsense !  then  you  would  be  arrested  and  guil- 
lotined as  a  criminal.  Besides,  you  might  miss  your 
stroke  ;  it  is  unpardonable  not  to  kill  a  wife  when  you 
attempt  it.  Leave  me  to  undo  your  folly,  you  big 
child !  Go  away ;  but  take  care  of  yourself,  for  she 
is  capable  of  laying  some  trap  and  getting  you  locked 
up  at  Charenton.  I  will  see  about  serving  the  notices 
of  the  suit  on  her  at  once  ;  that  will  be  some  protection 
to  you." 

The  poor  colonel  obeyed  his  young  benefactor,  and 
went  away,  stammering  a  few  excuses.  He  was  going 
slowly  down  the  dark  staircase  lost  in  gloomy  thought, 
overcome  perhaps  by  the  blow  he  had  just  received,  to 
him  the  worst,  the  one  that  went  deepest  to  his  heart, 
when,  as  he  reached  the  lower  landing,  he  heard  the 
rustle  of  a  gown,  and  his  wife  appeared. 

"  Come,  monsieur,"  she  said,  taking  his  arm  with  a 
movement  like  others  he  once  knew  so  well. 

The  action,  the  tones  of  her  voice,  now  soft  and 
gentle,  calmed  the  colonel's  anger,  and  he  allowed  her 
to  lead  him  to  her  carriage. 


Colonel  Chahert  169 

**  Get  in,"  she  said,  when  the  footman  had  let  down 
the  steps. 

And  he  suddenly  found  himself,  as  if  by  magic, 
seated  beside  his  wife  in  the  coupe. 

'*  Where  to,  madame?"  asked  the  footman. 

**  To  Groslay,"  she  replied. 

The  horses  started,  and  the  carriage  crossed  the 
whole  city. 

'^ Monsieur!"  said  the  countess,  in  a  tone  of  voice 
that  seemed  to  betray  one  of  those  rare  emotions,  few 
in  life,  which  shake  our  whole  being. 

At  such  moments  heart,  fibres,  nerves,  soul,  body, 
countenance,  all,  even  the  pores  of  the  skin,  quiver. 
Life  seems  no  longer  in  us ;  it  gushes  out,  it  conveys 
itself  like  a  contagion,  it  transmits  itself  in  a  look,  in 
a  tone  of  the  voice,  in  a  gesture,  in  the  imposition  of 
our  will  on  others.  The  old  soldier  trembled,  hearing 
that  word,  that  first,  that  expressive  ''Monsieur!" 
It  was  at  once  a  reproach,  a  prayer,  a  pardon,  a  hope, 
a  despair,  a  question,  an  answer.  That  one  word  in- 
cluded alL  A  woman  must  needs  be  a  great  comedian 
to  throw  such  eloquence  and  so  many  feelings  into  one 
word.  Truth  is  never  so  complete  in  its  expression  ;  it 
cannot  utter  itself  wholly,  —  it  leaves  something  to  be 
seen  within.  The  colonel  was  filled  with  remorse  for 
his  suspicions,  his  exactions,  his  anger,  and  he  lowered 
his  eyes  to  conceal  his  feelings. 


170  Colonel   ChaherL 

"  Monsieur,"  continued  the  countess,  after  an  almost 
imperceptible  pause,  "  I  knew  you  at  once." 

"  Rosine,"  said  the  old  soldier,  "  that  word  contains 
the  only  balm  that  can  make  me  forget  my  troubles." 

Two  great  tears  fell  hotly  on  his  wife's  hands,  which 
he  pressed  as  if  to  show  her  a  paternal  affection. 

"Monsieur,"  she  continued,  "  how  is  it  you  did  not 
see  what  it  cost  me  to  appear  before  a  stranger  in  a 
position  so  false  as  mine.  If  I  am  forced  to  blush  for 
what  I  am,  at  least  let  it  be  in  my, own  home.  Ought 
not  such  a  secret  to  remain  buried  in  our  own  hearts  ? 
You  will,  I  hope,  forgive  my  apparent  indifference  to 
the  misfortunes  of  a  Chabert  in  whom  I  had  no  rea- 
son to  believe.  I  did  receive  your  letters,"  she  said, 
hastily',  seeing  a  sudden  objection  on  her  husband's 
face  ;  "  but  they  reached  me  thirteen  months  after  the 
battle  of  E^'lau  ;  the^^  were  open,  torn,  dirt3'  ;  the  writ- 
ing was  unknown  to  me  ;  and  I,  who  had  just  obtained 
Napoleon's  signature  to  m}"  new  marriage  contract,  sup- 
posed that  some  clever  swindler  was  trying  to  impose 
upon  me.  Not  wishing  to  trouble  Monsieur  Ferraud's 
peace  of  mind,  or  to  bring  future  trouble  into  the  family, 
I  was  right,  was  I  not,  to  take  every  precaution  against 
a  false  Chabert?" 

'*Yes,  you  were  right;  and  I  have  been  a  fool,  a 
dolt,  a  beast,  not  to  have  foreseen  the  consequences  of 
such  a  situation.     But  where  are  we  going?  "  asked  the 


Colonel  ChaherL  171 

colonel,  suddenly  noticing  that  they  had  reached  the 
Barriere  de  la  Chapelle. 

"To  my  countiy-place  near  Groslay,  in  the  valley 
of  Montmorency,"  she  replied.  ''  There,  monsieur,  we 
can  think  over,  together,  the  course  we  ought  to  take. 
I  know  ray  duty.  Though  I  am  yours  legall}',  I  am  no 
longer  yours  in  fact.  Surel}',  you  cannot  wish  that  we 
should  be  the  common  talk  of  Paris.  Let  us  hide  from 
the  public  a  situation  which,  for  me,  has  a  mortifying 
side,  and  strive  to  maintain  our  dignity.  You  love  me 
still,"  she  continued,  casting  a  sad  and  gentle  look 
upon  the  colonel,  "  but  I,  was  I  not  authorized  to 
form  other  ties?  In  this  strange  position  a  secret 
voice  tells  me  to  hope  in  your  goodness,  which  I  know 
so  well.  Am  I  wrong  in  taking  you,  3-0U  onlj^  for  the 
sole  arbiter  of  my  fate  ?  Be  judge  and  pleader  both ;  I 
confide  in  your  noble  nature.  You  will  forgive  the 
consequences  of  my  innocent  fault.  I  dare  avow  to 
you,  therefore,  that  I  love  Monsieur  Ferraud ;  I  thought 
I  had  the  right  to  love  him.  I  do  not  blush  for  this 
confession  ;  it  may  offend  you,  but  it  dishonors  neither 
of  us.  I  cannot  hide  the  truth  from  you.  When  acci- 
dent made  me  a  widow,  I  was  not  a  mother  —  " 

The  colonel  made  a  sign  with  his  hand  as  if  to  ask 
silence  of  his  wife ;  and  they  remained  silent,  not  SAy- 
ing  a  word  for  over  a  mile.  Chabert  fancied  he  saw 
her  little  children  before  him. 


172  Colonel  Chahert. 

"  Rosine ! " 

"Monsieur?" 

"  The  dead  do  wrong  to  reappear." 

*'0h,  monsieur,  no,  no!  Do  not  think  me  ungrate- 
ful. But  3^ou  find  a  mother,  a  woman  who  loves  an- 
other man,  where  3'ou  left  a  wife.  If  it  is  no  longer  in 
my  power  to  love  you,  I  know  what  I  owe  to  you,  and 
I  offer  you  still  the  devotion  of  a  daughter." 

''Rosine,"  said  the  old  man,  gentl}^,  "I  feel  no  re- 
sentment towards  you.  We  will  forget  all  that  once 
was,"  he  said,  with  one  of  those  smiles  whose  charm  is 
the  reflection  of  a  noble  soul.  "  I  am  not  so  lost  to 
delicacy  as  to  ask  a  show  of  love  from  a  woman  who  no 
longer  loves  me." 

The  countess  gave  him  such  a  grateful  glance  that 
poor  Chabert  wished  in  his  heart  he  could  return  to 
that  grave  at  Ej^lau.  Certain  men  have  souls  capable 
of  vast  sacrifices,  whose  recompense  to  them  is  the  cer- 
tainty of  the  happiness  of  one  they  love. 

"My  friend,  we  will  talk  of  all  this  later,  with  a 
quiet  mind,"  said  the  countess. 

The  conversation  took  another  turn,  for  it  was  im- 
possible to  continue  it  long  in  this  strain.  Though 
husband  and  wife  constantly  touched  upon  their  strange 
position,  either  by  vague  allusions,  or  grave  remarks, 
they  nevertheless  made  a  charming  journe}^  recalling 
many  of  the  events  of  their  union,  and  of  the  Empire. 


Colonel  Chahert,  173 

The  countess  knew  how  to  impart  a  tender  charm  to 
these  memories,  and  to  cast  a  tinge  of  melancholy  upon 
the  conversation,  enough  at  least  to  keep  it  serious. 
She  revived  love  without  exciting  desire,  and  showed 
her  first  husband  the  mental  graces  and  knowledge  she 
had  acquired,  —  trying  to  let  him  taste  the  happiness 
of  a  father  beside  a  cherished  daughter.  The  colonel 
had  known  the  countess  of  the  Empire,  he  now  saw  a 
countess  of  the  Restoration. 

They  at  last  arrived,  through  a  cross-road,  at  a  fine 
park  in  the  little  valley  which  separates  the  heights  of 
Margency  from  the  pretty  village  of  Groslay.  The 
house  was  a  delightful  one,  and  the  colonel  saw  on 
arriving  that  all  was  prepared  for  their  stsiy.  Misfor- 
tune is  a  sort  of  talisman,  the  power  of  which  lies  in 
strengthening  and  fulfilling  our  natural  man ;  it  in- 
creases the  distrust  and  evil  tendencies  of  certain 
natures  just  as  it  increases  the  goodness  of  those  whose 
heart  is  sound.  Misfortune  had  made  the  colonel  more 
helpful  and  better  than  he  had  ever  been  ;  he  was  there- 
fore able  to  enter  into  those  secrets  of  woman's  suffer- 
ing which  are  usually  unknown  to  men.  And  yet,  in 
spite  of  his  great  lack  of  distrust,  he  could  not  help 
saying  to  his  wife  :  — 

*'  You  seem  to  have  been  sure  of  bringing  me  here?" 
"Yes,"  she  answered,  ''if  I  found  Colonel  Chabert 
in  the  petitioner." 


174  Colonel  ChaberL 

The  tone  of  truth  which  she  gave  to  that  answer 
dispersed  the  few  doubts  which  the  colonel  already  fell 
ashamed  of  admitting. 

For  three  days  the  countess  was  truly  admirable  in 
her  conduct  to  her  first  husband.  By  tender  care  and 
constant  gentleness  she  seemed  to  try  to  efface  even 
the  memory  of  the  sufferings  he  had  endured,  and  to 
win  pardon  for  the  misfortunes  she  had,  as  she  ad- 
mitted, innocently  caused.  She  took  pleasure  in  dis- 
playing for  his  benefit,  though  always  with  a  sort  of 
melancholy,  the  particular  charms  under  the  influence 
of  which  she  knew  him  to  be  feeble,  —  for  men  are 
more  particular!}"  susceptible  to  certain  wa3s,  to  certain 
graces  of  heart  and  mind ;  and  those  they  are  unable 
to  resist.  She  wanted  to  interest  him  in  her  situation, 
to  move  his  feelings  enough  to  control  his  mind  and  so 
bend  him  absolutely  to  her  will.  Resolved  to  take  any 
means  to  reach  her  ends,  she  was  still  uncertain  what 
to  do  with  the  man,  though  she  meant,  undoubtedly,  to 
destroy  him  socially. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  she  began  to  feel 
that  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  she  could  no  longer  con- 
ceal the  anxiety  she  felt  as  to  the  result  of  her  manoeu- 
vres. To  obtain  a  moment's  relief  she  went  up  to  her 
own  room,  sat  down  at  her  writing-table,  and  took  ofif 
the  mask  of  tranquillity  she  had  worn  before  the  colonel, 
like  an  actress  returning  weary  to  her  room  after  a 


Colonel  Chahert.  175 

trying  fifth  act  and  falling  half-dead  upon  a  couch, 
while  the  audience  retains  an  image  of  her  to  which  she 
bears  not  the  slightest  resemblance.  She  began  to 
finish  a  letter  already  begun  to  Delbecq,  telling  him  to 
go  to  Derville  and  ask  in  her  name  for  a  sight  of  the 
papers  which  concerned  Colonel  Chabert,  to  copy  them, 
and  come  immediately  to  Groslay.  She  had  hardly 
finished  before  she  heard  the  colonel's  step  in  the  cor- 
ridor ;  for  he  was  coming,  full  of  anxiety,  to  find  her. 

*'0h!  "  she  said  aloud,  ''I  wish  I  were  dead!  my 
position  is  intolerable  —  " 

"What  is  it?  is  anything  the  matter?"  said  the 
worthy  man. 

''Nothing,  nothing,"  she  said. 

She  rose,  left  the  colonel  where  he  was,  and  went  to 
speak  to  her  maid  without  witnesses,  telling  her  to  go 
at  once  to  Paris  and  deliver  the  letter,  which  she  gave 
her,  into  Delbecq's  own  hands,  and  to  bring  it  back  to 
her  as  soon  as  he  read  it.  Then  she  went  out  and  seated 
herself  on  a  bench  m  the  garden,  where  she  was  in  full 
view  of  the  colonel  if  he  wished  to  find  her.  He  was 
already  searching  for  her  and  he  soon  came. 

*'  Rosine,"  he  said,  "  tell  me  what  is  the  matter." 

She  did  not  answer.  It  was  one  of  those  glorious 
calm  evenings  of  the  month  of  June,  when  all  secret 
harmonies  diffuse  such  peace,  such  sweetness  in  the 
sunsets.     The  air  was  pure,  the  silence  deep,  and  a 


176  Colonel  Chabert. 

distant  murmur  of  children's  voices  added  a  sort  of 
melody  to  the  consecrated  scene. 

*'  You  do  not  answer  me,"  said  the  coloneL 

"My  husband  — "  began  the  countess,  then  she 
stopped,  made  a  movement,  and  said,  appealingly,  with 
a  blush,  ''  What  ought  I  to  say  in  speaking  of  Mon- 
sieur le  Comte  Ferraud  ?  " 

*'  Call  him  j^our  husband,  my  poor  child,"  answered 
the  colonel,  in  a  kind  tone ;  "  he  is  the  father  of  jour 
children." 

"  Well,  then,"  she  continued,  *'  if  he  asks  me  what  I 
am  doing  here,  if  he  learns  that  I  have  shut  myself  up 
with  an  unknown  man,  what  am  I  to  say  ?  Hear  me, 
monsieur,"  she  went  on,  taking  an  attitude  that  was 
full  of  dignity,  "  decide  my  fate  ;  I  feel  I  am  resigned 
to  everything  —  " 

"  Dear,"  said  the  colonel,  grasping  his  wife's  hands, 
"  I  have  resolved  to  sacrifice  myself  wholly  to  your 
happiness  —  " 

'*  That  is  impossible,"  she  cried,  with  a  convulsive 
movement.  *' Remember  that  in  that  case  you  must 
renounce  j^our  own  identitj^  —  and  do  so  legally." 

**What!"  exclaimed  the  colonel,  '*does  not  my 
word  satisfy  you?" 

The  term  "  legally"  fell  like  lead  upon  the  old  man's 
heart  and  roused  an  involuntary  distrust.  He  cast  a 
look  upon  his  wife  which  made  her  blush ;  she  lowered 


Colonel  Ckahert,  177 

her  ej'es,  and  for  a  moment  he  feared  he  should  be 
forced  to  despise  her.  The  countess  was  alarmed  lest 
she  had  startled  the  honest  shame,  the  stern  upright- 
ness of  a  man  whose  generous  nature  and  whose  primi- 
tive virtues  were  well-known  to  her.  Though  these 
ideas  brought  a  cloud  to  each  brow  they  were  suddenly 
dispelled,  harmony  was  restored,  —  and  thus:  A  child's 
cry  resounded  in  the  distance. 

**  Jules,  let  3'our  sister  alone  !  "  cried  the  countess. 

**What!  are  your  children  here?"  exclaimed  the 
colonel. 

"  Yes,  but  I  forbade  them  to  come  in  your  way." 

The  old  soldier  understood  the  delicacy  and  the 
womanly  tact  shown  in  that  graceful  consideration,  and 
he  took  her  hand  to  kiss  it. 

**  Let  them  come  ! "  he  said. 

The  little  girl  ran  up  to  complain  of  her  brother. 

**  Mamma !  he  plagued  me  —  *' 

"Mamma!" 

'*It  was  his  fault—-" 

"It  was  hers  —  " 

The  hands  were  stretched  out  to  the  mother,  and  the 
two  voices  mingled.    It  was  a  sudden,  delightful  picture. 

"My  poor  children!"  exclaimed  the  countess,  not 
restraining  her  tears,  "must  I  lose  them?  To  whom 
will  the  court  give  them?  A  mother's  heart  cannot  bo 
shared.     I  will  have  them  !  yes,  I  —  " 

12 


178  Colonel   Chahert 

"  You  are  making  mamma  cr}^"  said  Jules,  the  elder, 
with  an  angry  look  at  the  colonel. 

"  Hush,  Jules  !  "  cried  his  mother,  peremptorily. 

The  two  children  examined  their  mother  and  the 
stranger  with  an  indescribable  curiosity. 

''  Yes,"  continued  the  countess,  *'  if  I  am  parted  from 
Monsieur  Ferraud,  they  must  leave  me  my  children ; 
if  I  have  them,  I  can  bear  all." 

Those  words  brought  the  success  she  expected. 

"  Yes,"  cried  the  colonel,  as  if  completing  a  sentence 
he  had  begun  mentally.  *'  I  must  return  to  the  grave  ; 
I  have  thought  so  already." 

''How  can  I  accept  such  a  sacrifice?"  replied  the 
countess.  ' '  If  men  have  died  to  save  the  honor  of 
their  mistresses,  they  gave  their  lives  but  once.  But 
this  would  be  giving  your  daily  life,  your  lifetime !  No, 
no,  it  is  impossible  ;  if  it  were  only  your  existence  per- 
haps it  might  be  nothing,  but  to  sign  a  record  that  you 
are  not  Colonel  Chabert,  to  admit  yourself  an  impostor, 
to  sacrifice  your  honor,  to  live  a  lie  for  all  the  daj's  of 
your  life,  —  no ;  human  devotion  cannot  go  to  such  a 
length !  No,  no !  if  it  were  not  for  my  poor  children 
I  would  fly  with  you  to  the  ends  of  the  earth." 

"But,"  said  Chabert,  ''why  can  I  not  live  here,  in 
that  little  cottage,  as  a  friend  and  relative.  I  am  as 
useless  as  an  old  cannon ;  all  I  need  is  a  little  tobacco 
and  the  '  ConstitutionneL' " 


Colonel  Chabert.  179 

The  countess  burst  into  tears.  Then  followed  a 
struggle  of  generosity  between  them,  from  which  Colo- 
nel Chabert  came  forth  a  conqueror.  One  evening, 
watching  the  mother  in  the  midst  of  her  children, 
deeply  moved  by  that  picture  of  a  home,  influenced, 
too,  by  the  silence  and  the  quiet  of  the  country,  he 
came  to  the  resolution  of  remaining  dead ;  no  longer 
resisting  the  thought  of  a  legal  instrument,  he  asked  his 
wife  what  steps  he  should  take  to  secure,  irrevocably, 
the  happiness  of  that  home. 

"  Do  what  you  will,"  replied  the  countess  ;  "  I  declare 
positively  that  I  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  —  I 
ought  not." 

Delbecq  had  then  been  in  the  house  a  few  daj^s,  and, 
in  accordance  with  the  countess's  verbal  instructions, 
he  had  wormed  himself  into  the  confidence  of  the  old 
soldier.  The  morning  after  this  little  scene  Colonel 
Chabert  accompanied  the  former  lawyer  to  Saint-Leu- 
Taverny,  where  Delbecq  had  already  had  an  agreement 
drawn  up  by  a  notary,  in  terms  so  crude  and  brutal  that 
on  hearing  them  the  colonel  abruptly  left  the  office. 

*'  Good  God !  would  you  make  me  infamous !  wh}', 
I  should  be  called  a  forger ! " 

"Monsieur,"  said  Delbecq,  *'I  advise  j'ou  not  to 
sign  too  quickly.  You  could  get  at  least  thirty  thou- 
sand francs  a  year  out  of  this  affair ;  Madame  would 
give  them." 


180  Colonel  Chahert, 

Blasting  that  scoundrel  emeritus  with  the  luminous 
glance  of  an  indignant  honest  man,  the  colonel  rushed 
from  the  place  driven  by  a  thousand  conflicting  feel- 
ings. He  was  again  distrustful,  indignant,  and  merci- 
ful by  turns.  After  a  time  he  re-entered  the  park  of 
Groslay  by  a  breach  in  the  wall,  and  went,  with  slow 
steps,  to  rest  and  think  at  his  ease,  in  a  little  study 
built  beneath  a  raised  kiosk  which  commanded  a  view 
of  the  road  from  Saint-Leu. 

The  path  was  made  of  that  yellow  earth  which  now 
takes  the  place  of  river-gravel,  and  the  countess,  who 
was  sitting  in  the  kiosk  above,  did  not  hear  the  slight 
noise  of  the  colonel's  footstep,  being  preoccupied  with 
anxious  thoughts  as  to  the  success  of  her  plot.  Neither 
did  the  old  soldier  become  aware  of  the  presence  of  his 
wife  in  the  kiosk  above  him. 

**Well,  Monsieur  Delbecq,  did  he  sign?"  asked  the 
countess,  when  she  saw  the  secretary,  over  the  sunk- 
fence,  alone  upon  the  road. 

**  No,  Madame ;  and  I  don't  even  know  what  has 
become  of  him.     The  old  horse  reared." 

"  We  shall  have  to  put  him  in  Charenton,"  she  said ; 
*' we  can  do  it." 

The  colonel,  recovering  the  elasticity  of  his  youth, 
jumped  the  ha-ha,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  ap- 
plied the  hardest  pair  of  slaps  that  ever  two  cheeks 
received.     "  Old  horses  kick ! "  he  said. 


Colonel  ChaherL  181 

His  anger  once  over,  the  colonel  had  no  strength  left 
to  jump  the  ditch  again.  The  truth  lay  before  him  in 
its  nakedness.  His  wife's  words  and  Delbecq's  answer 
had  shown  him  the  plot  to  which  he  had  so  nearly  been 
a  victim.  The  tender  attentions  he  had  received  were 
the  bait  of  the  trap.  That  thought  was  like  a  sudden 
poison,  and  it  brought  back  to  the  old  hero  his  past 
sufferings,  physical  and  mental.  He  returned  to  the 
kiosk  through  a  gate  of  the  park,  walking  slowly  like 
a  broken  man.  So,  then,  there  was  no  peace,  no  truce  for 
him !  Must  he  enter  upon  that  odious  struggle  with  a 
woman  which  Derville  had  explained  to  him  ?  must  he 
live  a  life  of  legal  suits?  must  he  feed  on  gall,  and  drink 
each  morning  the  cup  of  bitterness.  Then,  dreadful 
thought !  where  was  the  money  for  such  suits  to  come 
from.  So  deep  a  disgust  of  life  came  over  him,  that  had 
a  pistol  been  at  hand  he  would  have  blown  out  his  brains. 
Then  he  fell  back  into  the  confusion  of  ideas  which,  ever 
since  his  interview  with  Derville  in  the  cow-yard,  had 
changed  his  moral  being.  At  last,  reaching  the  kiosk, 
he  went  up  the  stairs  to  the  upper  chamber,  whose  oriel 
windows  looked  out  on  all  the  enchanting  perspectives 
of  that  well-known  valley,  and  where  he  found  his  wife 
sitting  on  a  chair.  The  countess  was  looking  at  the 
landscape,  with  a  calm  and  quiet  demeanor,  and  that 
impenetrable  countenance  which  certain  determined 
women  know  so  well  how  to  assume.     She  dried  her 


182  Colonel  Chahert. 

eyes,  as  though  she  had  shed  tears,  and  played,  as  if 
abstractedly,  with  the  ribbons  of  her  sash.  Neverthe- 
less, in  spite  of  this  apparent  composure,  she  could  not 
prevent  herself  from  trembling  when  she  saw  her  noble 
benefactor  before  her,  —  standing,  his  arms  crossed,  his 
face  pale,  his  brow  stern. 

''  Madame,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  so  fixedly  for  a 
moment  that  he  forced  her  to  blush ;  •*  Madame,  I  do 
not  curse  you,  but  I  despise  yoxi.  I  now  thank  the 
fate  which  has  parted  us.  I  have  no  desire  for  ven- 
geance ;  I  have  ceased  to  love  3'ou.  I  want  nothing 
from  you.  Live  in  peace  upon  the  faith  of  my  word  ; 
it  is  worth  more  than  the  legal  papers  of  all  the  notaries 
in  Paris.  I  shall  never  take  the  name  I  made,  per- 
haps, illustrious.  Henceforth,  I  am  but  a  poor  devil 
named  Hyacinthe,  who  asks  no  more  than  a  place  in 
God's  sunlight.     Farewell  —  " 

The  countess  flung  herself  at  his  feet  and  tried  to 
hold  him  by  catching  his  hands,  but  he  repulsed  her 
with  disgust,  saying,  "Do  not  touch  me!" 

The  countess  made  a  gesture  which  no  description 
can  portray  when  she  heard  the  sound  of  her  husband's 
departing  steps.  Then,  with  that  profound  sagacity 
"which  comes  of  great  wickedness,  or  of  the  savage, 
material  selfishness  of  this  world,  she  felt  she  might 
live  in  peace,  relying  on  the  promise  and  the  contempt 
of  that  loyal  soldier. 


Colonel  Chahert,  18S 

Chabert  disappeared.  The  cow-keeper  failed  and 
became  a  cab-driver.  Perhaps  the  colonel  at  first 
found  some  such  occupation.  Perhaps,  like  a  stone 
flung  into  the  rapids,  he  went  from  fall  to  fall  until  he 
sank  engulfed  in  that  great  pool  of  filth  and  penury 
which  welters  in  the  streets  of  Paris. 

Six  months  after  these  events  Derville,  who  had 
heard  nothing  of  Colonel  Chabert  or  of  the  Comtesse 
Ferraud,  thought  that  they  had  probably  settled  on  a 
compromise,  and  that  the  countess,  out  of  spite,  had 
employed  some  other  lawyer  to  draw  the  papers.  Ac- 
cordingly, one  morning  he  summed  up  the  amounts  ad- 
vanced to  the  said  Chabert,  added  the  costs,  and 
requested  the  Comtesse  Ferraud  to  obtain  from  Mon- 
sieur le  Comte  Chabert  the  full  amount,  presuming- 
that  she  knew  the  whereabouts  of  her  first  husband. 

The  next  day  Comte  Ferraud's  secretary  sent  the 
following  answer:  — 

Monsieur,  —  I  am  directed  by  Madame  la  Comtesse 
Ferraud  to  inform  you  that  your  client  totally  deceived  you, 
and  that  the  individual  calling  himself  the  Comte  Chabert 
admitted  having  falsely  taken  that  name. 

Receive  the  assurance,  etc.,  etc. 

Delbecq. 

**  Well,  some  people  are,  upon  my  honor,  as  devoid 
of  sense  as  the  beasts  of  the  field,  —  they  Ve  stolen 


184  Colonel  Chahert. 

their  baptism  !  ^  cried  Derville.  ''  Be  human,  be  gen- 
erous, be  philanthropic,  and  you  *11  find  j^ourself  in  the 
lurch !  Here 's  a  business  that  has  cost  me  over  two 
thousand  francs." 

Not  long  after  the  reception  of  this  letter  Derville 
was  at  the  Palais,  looking  for  a  lawyer  with  whom  he 
wished  to  speak,  and  who  was  in  the  habit  of  practising 
in  the  criminal  courts.  It  so  chanced  that  Derville  en- 
tered the  sixth  court-room  as  the  judge  was  sentencing 
a  vagrant  named  Hyacinthe  to  two  months'  imprison- 
ment, the  said  vagrant  to  be  conveyed  at  the  expiration 
of  the  sentence  to  the  mendicity  office  of  the  Saint-Denis 
quai*ter,  —  a  sentence  which  was  equivalent  to  perpetual 
imprisonment.  The  name,  Hj^acinthe,  caught  Derville's 
ear,  and  he  looked  at  the  delinquent  sitting  between  two 
gendarmes  on  the  prisoner's  bench,  and  recognized  at 
once  his  false  Colonel  Chabert.  The  old  soldier  was 
calm,  motionless,  almost  absent-minded.  In  spite  of 
his  rags,  in  spite  of  the  poverty  marked  on  every 
feature  of  the  face,  his  countenance  was  instinct  with 
noble  pride.  His  glance  had  an  expression  of  stoicism 
which  a  magistrate  ought  not  to  have  overlooked ;  but 
when  a  man  falls  into  the  hands  of  justice,  he  is  no 
longer  anything  but  an  entity,  a  question  of  law  and 
facts ;  in  the  eyes  of  statisticians,  he  is  a  numeral. 

When  the  soldier  was  taken  from  the  court-room  to 
wait  until  the  whole  batch  of  vagabonds  who  were  then 


Colonel  Ohabert.  185 

being  sentenced  were  ready  for  removal,  Derville  used 
his  privilege  as  a  lawyer  to  follow  him  into  the  room 
adjoining  the  sheriflTs  office,  where  he  watched  him  for 
a  few  moments,  together  with  the  curious  collection  of 
beggars  who  surrounded  him.  The  ante-chamber  of  a 
sheriflTs  office  presents  at  such  times  a  sight  which,  ua- 
fortunately,  neither  legislators,  nor  philanthropists,  nor 
painters,  nor  writers,  ever  study.  Like  all  the  labora- 
tories of  the  law  this  antechamber  is  dark  and  ill- 
smelling;  the  walls  are  protected  by  a  bench,  black- 
ened by  the  incessant  presence  of  the  poor  wretches 
who  come  to  this  central  rendezvous  from  all  quarters 
of  social  wretchedness,  —  not  one  of  which  is  unrepre- 
sented there.  A  poet  would  say  that  the  da}  light  was 
ashamed  to  lighten  that  terrible  sink-hole  of  all  miseries. 
There  is  not  one  spot  within  it  where  crime,  planned  Of 
committed,  has  not  stood ;  not  a  spot  where  some  man, 
rendered  desperate  by  the  stigma  which  justice  lays 
upon  him  for  his  first  fault,  has  not  begun  a  career 
leading  to  the  scaflTold  or  to  suicide.  All  those  who  fall 
in  Paris  rebound  against  these  yellow  walls,  on  which 
a  philanthropist  could  decipher  the  meaning  of  many  a 
suicide  about  which  hypocritical  writers,  incapable  of 
taking  one  step  to  prevent  them,  rail ;  written  on  those 
walls  he  will  find  a  preface  to  the  dramas  of  the  Morgue 
and  those  of  the  place  de  Greve.  Colonel  Chabert  was 
now  sitting  in  the  midst  of  this  crowd  of  men  with 


186  Colonel  Chabert. 

nervous  faces,  clothed  in  the  horrible  liveries  of  pov- 
erty, silent  at  times  or  talking  in  a  low  voice,  for  three 
gendarmes  paced  the  room  as  sentries,  their  sabres 
clanging  against  the  floor. 

"Do  you  recognize  me?"  said  Derville  to  the  old 
soldier. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,"  said  Chabert,  rising. 

*'If  you  are  an  honest  man,"  continued  Derville,  in 
a  low  voice,  "how  is  it  that  you  have  remained  my 
debtor?" 

The  old  soldier  colored  like  a  young  girl  accused  by 
her  mother  of  a  clandestine  love. 

"Is  it  possible,"  he  cried  in  a  loud  voice,  "that 
Madame  Ferraud  has  not  paid  you?" 

"  Paid  me  !  "  said  Derville,  "  she  wrote  me  you  were 
an  impostor." 

The  colonel  raised  his  e3"es  with  a  majestic  look  of 
horror  and  invocation  as  if  to  appeal  to  heaven  against 
this  new  treachery-.  "  Monsieur,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
that  was  calm  though  it  faltered,  *'  ask  the  gendarmes  to 
be  so  kind  as  to  let  me  go  into  the  sheriflfs  office  ;  I  will 
there  write  you  an  order  which  will  certainly  be  paid." 

Derville  spoke  to  the  corporal,  and  was  allowed  to  take 
his  client  into  the  office,  where  the  colonel  wrote  a  few 
lines  and  addressed  them  to  the  Comtesse  Ferraud. 

"  Send  that  to  her,"  he  said,  "  and  you  will  be  paid 
for  your  loans  and  all  costs.     Believe  me,  Monsieur,  if 


Colonel  OhaheH,  187 

I  have  not  shown  the  gratitude  I  owe  you  for  j'our  kind 
acts  it  is  none  the  less  there"  he  said,  laying  his  hand 
upon  his  heart ;  *' yes  it  is  there,  full,  complete.  But 
the  unfortunate  ones  can  do  nothing,  —  they  love, 
that  is  all." 

**  Can  it  be,"  said  Derville,  "  that  you  did  not  stipu- 
late for  an  income  ?  " 

**  Don't  speak  of  that/'  said  the  old  man.  *'  You  can 
never  know  how  utterly  I  despise  this  external  life  to 
which  the  majority  of  men  cling  so  tenaciously.  I  was 
taken  suddenly  with  an  illness,  —  a  disgust  for  humanity. 
When  I  think  that  Napoleon  is  at  Saint-Helena  all 
things  here  below  are  nothing  to  me.  I  can  no  longer 
be  a  soldier,  that  is  my  only  sorrow.  Ah,  well,"  he 
added,  with  a  gesture  that  was  full  of  childlike  playful- 
ness, *'  it  is  better  to  have  luxury  in  our  feelings  than 
in  our  clothes.     I  fear  no  man's  contempt." 

He  went  back  to  the  bench  and  sat  down.  Der- 
ville went  away.  When  he  reached  his  oflSce,  he  sent 
Godeschal,  then  advanced  to  be  second  clerk,  to  the 
Comtesse  Ferraud,  who  had  no  sooner  read  the  mis- 
sive he  canied  than  she  paid  the  money  owing  to  Comte 
Chabert's  lawyer. 

In  1840,  towards  the  close  of  the  month  of  June, 
Godeschal,  then  a  lawj-er  on  his  own  account,  was  on 
his  way  to  Ris,  in  company  with  Derville.     When  they 


188  Colonel  Chabert. 

reached  the  avenue  which  leads  into  the  mail  road  to 
Bicetre,  they  saw  beneath  an  elm  by  the  roadside  one 
of  those  hoary,  broken-down  old  paupers  who  rule  the 
beggars  about  them,  and  live  at  Bicetre  just  as  pauper 
women  live  at  La  Salpetriere.  This  man,  one  of  the 
two  thousand  inmates  of  the  **  Almshouse  for  Old  Age," 
was  sitting  on  a  stone  and  seemed  to  be  giving  all  his 
mind  to  an  operation  well-known  to  the  dwellers  in 
charitable  institutions ;  that  of  drying  the  tobacco  in 
their  handkerchiefs  in  the  sun,  —  possibly  to  escape 
washing  them.  The  old  man  had  an  interesting  face. 
He  was  dressed  in  that  gown  of  dark,  reddish  cloth 
which  the  Almshouse  provides  for  its  inmates,  a  dread- 
ful sort  of  liver}^ 

"Derville,"  said  Godeschal  to  his  companion,  *'do 
look  at  that  old  fellow.  Is  n*t  he  like  those  grotesque 
figures  that  are  made  in  German3\  But  I  suppose  he 
lives,  and  perhaps  he  is  happy!" 

Derville  raised  his  glass,  looked  at  the  pauper,  and 
gave  vent  to  an  exclamation  of  surprise  ;  then  he  said : 
*'  That  old  man,  my  dear  fellow,  is  a  poem,  or,  as  the 
romanticists  say,  a  drama.  Did  you  ever  meet  the 
Comtesse  Ferraud?" 

"Yes,  a  clever  woman  and  very  agreeable,  but  too 
pious." 

"That  old  man  is  her  legitimate  husband,  Comte 
Chabert,  formerly  colonel.     No  doubt  she  has  had  him 


Colonel  Ckabert.  189 

placed  here.  If  he  lives  in  an  almshouse  instead  of  a 
mansion,  it  is  because  he  reminded  the  pretty  countess 
that  he  took  her,  like  a  cab,  from  the  streets.  I  can 
still  see  the  tigerish  look  she  gave  him  when  he 
said  it." 

These  words  so  excited  Godeschal's  curiosity  that 
Derville  told  him  the  whole  stor3^  Two  days  later,  on 
the  following  Monday  morning,  as  they  were  returning 
to  Paris,  the  two  friends  glanced  at  Bicetre,  and  Der- 
ville proposed  that  they  should  go  and  see  Colonel 
Chabert.  Half-way  up  the  avenue  they  found  the  old 
man  sitting  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree,  and  amusing 
himself  by  drawing  lines  on  the  gravel  with  a  stick 
which  he  held  in  his  hand.  When  they  looked  at  him 
attentively  they  saw  that  he  had  been  breakfasting 
elsewhere  than  at  the  almshouse. 

**  Good-morning,  Colonel  Chabert,"  said  Derville. 

**  Not  Chabert !  not  Chabert !  my  name  is  Hyacinthe," 
answered  the  old  man.  "  I  'm  no  longer  a  man ;  I  *m 
number  164,  seventh  room,"  he  added,  looking  at 
Derville  with  timid  anxiety,  —  the  fear  of  old  age  or  of 
childhood.  *'You  can  see  the  condemned  prisoner," 
he  said,  after  a  moment's  silence ;  *'  he 's  not  married, 
no  !  he  *s  happy  —  '* 

"Poor  man  I"  said  Godeschal;  **  don't  you  want 
some  money  for  tobacco?" 

The  colonel  extended  his  band  with  all  the  naivete 


190  Colonel  Chahert. 

of  a  street  boy  to  the  two  strangers,  who  each  gave  him 
a  twenty-franc  gold  piece.  He  thanked  them  both,  with 
a  stupid  look,  and  said,  "Brave  troopers  !  "  Then  he 
pretended  to  shoulder  arms  and  take  aim  at  them, 
calling  out  with  a  laugh,  "  Fire  the  two  pieces,  and 
long  live  Napoleon ! "  after  which  he  described  an  im- 
aginary arabesque  in  the  air,  with  a  flourish  of  his 
cane. 

"  The  nature  of  his  wound  must  have  made  him 
childish,"  said  Derville. 

''  He  childish !  "  cried  another  old  pauper  who  was 
watching  them.  *'Ha!  there  are  days  when  it  won't 
do  to  step  on  his  toes.  He  *s  a  knowing  one,  full  of 
philosophy  and  imagination.  But  to-day,  don't  you 
see,  he  's  been  keeping  Monday.  Why,  Monsieur,  he 
was  here  in  1820.  Just  about  that  time  a  Prussian 
officer,  whose  carriage  was  going  over  the  Villejuif  hill, 
walked  by  on  foot.  Hyacinthe  and  I  were  sitting  by 
the  roadside.  The  officer  was  talking  with  another,  I 
think  it  was  a  Russian  or  some  animal  of  that  kind, 
and  when  they  saw  the  old  fellow,  the  Prussian,  just 
to  tease  him,  says  he :  '  Here  's  an  old  voltigeur  who 
must  have  been  at  Rosbach  — '  'I  was  too  3'oung  to 
be  at  Rosbach,*  says  Hyacinthe,  but  I'm  old  enough 
to  have  been  at  Jena ! '  Ha,  ha !  that  Prussian  cleared 
off — and  no  more  questions  —  '* 

*'  What  a  fate  ! "  cried  Derville  ;  *'  born  in  the  Found- 


Colonel  Chahert  191 

ling,  he  returns  to  die  in  the  asylum  of  old  age,  having 
in  the  interval  helped  Napoleon  to  conquer  Egypt  and 
Europe  !  —  Do  you  know,  my  dear  fellow,'*  continued 
Derville,  after  a  long  pause,  "•  that  there  are  three  men 
in  our  social  system  who  cannot  respect  or  value  the 
"world,  —  the  priest,  the  physician,  and  the  lawyer.  They 
wear  black  gowns,  perhaps  because  they  mourn  for  all 
virtues,  all  illusions.  The  most  unhappy  among  them 
is  the  lawyer.  When  a  man  seeks  a  priest  he  is  forced 
to  it  by  repentance,  by  remorse,  by  beliefs  which  make 
him  interesting,  which  ennoble  him  and  comfort  the 
soul  of  his  mediator,  whose  duty  is  not  without  a  certain 
sort  of  joy  ;  the  priest  purifies,  heals,  reconciles.  But 
we  lawyers  !  we  see  forever  the  same  evil  feelings,  never 
coiTected  ;  our  offices  are  sink-holes  which  nothing  can 
cleanse. 

"How  many  things  have  I  not  seen  and  known 
and  learned  in  my  practice !  I  have  seen  a  father  die 
in  a  garret,  penniless,  abandoned  by  daughters,  to  each 
of  whom  he  had  given  an  income  of  forty  thousand 
francs.  I  have  seen  wills  burned.  I  have  seen  mothers 
robbing  their  children,  husbands  stealing  from  their 
wives,  wives  killing  their  husbands  by  the  very  love 
they  inspired,  so  as  to  live  in  peace  with  their  lovers. 
I  have  seen  women  giving  to  the  children  of  a  first 
marriage  tastes  which  led  them  to  their  death,  so  that 
the  child  of  love  might  be  enriched.    I  could  not  tell 


192  Colonel   Chahert. 

3"ou  what  I  have  seen,  for  I  have  seen  crimes  against 
which  justice  is  powerless.  All  the  horrors  that  ro- 
mance-writers think  they  invent  are  forever  below  the 
truth.  You  are  about  to  make  acquaintance  with  such 
things ;  as  for  me,  I  shall  live  in  the  country  with  my 
wife ;  I  have  a  horror  of  Paris. " 


1832. 


THE   ATHEIST'S  MASS. 


This  is  dedicated  to  Auguste  Borget,  by  his  friend, 

De  Balzac. 


A  physician  to  whom  science  owes  a  masterly  physi- 
ological theorj^,  and  who,  though  still  young,  has  taken 
his  place  among  the  celebrities  of  the  School  of  Paris, 
that  centre  of  medical  intelligence  to  which  the  phy- 
sicians of  Europe  pay  just  homage,  Doctor  Horace 
Bianchon  practised  surgery  for  some  time  before  he 
devoted  himself  to  medicine.  His  studies  were  directed 
by  one  of  the  greatest  of  French  surgeons,  the  illustri- 
ous Desplein,  who  passed  like  a  meteor  through  the 
skies  of  science.  Even  his  enemies  admit  that  he 
carried  with  him  to  the  grave  an  incommunicable 
method.  Like  all  men  of  genius,  he  had  no  heirs  of 
his  faculty ;  he  held  all  within  him,  and  he  carried  all 
away  with  him. 

The  fame  of  surgeons  is  something  like  that  of 
actors;  it  lives  during  their  lifetime  only,  and  is  not 
fully  appreciable  after  they   are  gone.      Actors  and 

13 


194  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

surgeons,  also  great  singers,  and  all  virtuosi  who  by 
execution  increase  the  power  of  music  tenfold,  are  the 
heroes  of  a  moment.  Desplein  is  a  proof  of  the  uni- 
versal fate  of  these  transitory  geniuses.  His  name,  so 
celebrated  yesterday,  to-day  almost  forgotten,  remains 
within  the  limits  of  his  specialty,  and  will  never  reach 
beyond  them. 

But,  let  us  ask,  must  there  not  exist  some  extraor- 
dinary  circumstances   to   bring  the  name  of  a   great 
worker  from   the  domain  of  science  into  the  general 
history  of  humanity?     Had  Desplein  that  universality 
of  knowledge  which  makes  a  man  the  Word  and  the 
Form  of  an  era?     Desplein  possessed  an  almost  divine 
insight;    he  penetrated  both  patient  and  disease  with 
an  intuition,  natural  or  acquired,  which  enabled  him 
to  seize  the  idiosyncrasies  of  the  individual,  and  so 
determine   the   exact   moment,   to   the   hour   and   the 
minute,  when  it  was  right  to  operate,  —  taking  note  of 
atmospheric  conditions,   and  peculiarities  of  tempera- 
ment.    Was  he  guided  in  this  by  that  power  of  deduc- 
tion and  analogy  to  which  is  due  the  genius  of  Cuvier? 
However  that  may  have  been,  this  man  certainly  made 
himself  the  confidant  of  flesh  ;  he  knew  its  secrets  of  the 
past,  and  of  the  future,  as  he  dealt  with  its  present. 
But  did  he  sum  up  the  whole  of  science  in  his  own 
person,   like  Galen,   Hippocrates,   Aristotle?     Has  he 
led  a  school  to  new  and  unknown  worlds?    No. 


The  Atheist's  Mass,  195 

Though  it  is  impossible  to  deny  to  this  perpetual 
observer  of  human  chemistry  some  faculty  of  the  an- 
cient science  of  magic,  —  that  is  to  say,  a  perception  of 
principles  in  fusion,  the  causes  of  life,  the  life  before 
the  life,  and  what  the  life  becomes  through  its  prepa- 
rations before  being,  —  we  must  admit,  speaking  justly, 
that  unfortunately  all  with  Desplein  was  Self;  he  was 
isolated  in  life  through  egoism,  and  egoism  has  killed 
his  fame.  No  speaking  statue  surmounts  his  tomb,  and 
tells  the  future  of  the  m3'steries  that  genius  wrested 
from  her.  But  perhaps  Desplein's  talent  was  one 
with  his  beliefs,  and  therefore  mortal.  To  him,  the 
terrestrial  atmosphere  was  a  generating  pouch ;  he  saw 
the  earth  like  an  Qgg  in  its  shell ;  unable  to  discover 
whether  the  Qgg  or  the  hen  were  the  beginning,  he  de- 
nied both  the  cock  and  the  Qgg,  He  believed  neither 
in  the  anterior  animal  nor  in  the  posterior  spirit  of  man. 

Desplein  was  not  a  doubter ;  he  affirmed  his  beliefs. 
His  clear-cut  atheism  was  like  that  of  a  great  many 
men  of  science,  who  are  the  best  people  in  the  world, 
but  invincible  atheists,  atheists  like  those  religious 
folk  who  will  not  admit  that  there  can  be  atheists. 
It  could  not  be  otherwise  with  a  man  accustomed  from 
his  earliest  youth  to  dissect  the  human  being  before, 
during,  and  after  life;  to  pry  into  all  its  apparatus 
and  never  find  that  soul-germ  so  essential  to  religious 
theories.     Finding  in  the  human  body  a  brain  centre, 


196  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

a  nervous  centre,  a  centre  of  the  blood  circulation  (the 
first  two  of  which  so  complement  each  other  that  during 
the  last  two  days  of  Desplein's  life  he  came  to  a  con- 
viction that  the  sense  of  hearing  was  not  absolutely 
necessar}^  in  order  to  hear,  nor  the  sense  of  sight  abso- 
lutely^ necessary  in  order  to  see,  and  that,  beyond  all 
doubt,  the  solar  plexus  did  replace  them),  —  Desplein, 
we  say,  finding  thus  two  souls  in  man,  corroborated  his 
atheism  by  this  very  fact,  though  he  asserted  nothing 
in  relation  to  God.  The  man  died,  the  world  said,  in 
the  impenitence  in  which  so  man}'  men  of  noblest 
genius  unhappily  leave  this  life,  —  men  whom  it  may, 
perhaps,  please  God  to  pardon. 

The  life  of  this  man  presented,  to  use  the  expression 
of  his  enemies,  who  were  jealous  of  his  fame  and  sought 
to  belittle  it,  many  pettinesses  which  it  is  more  just  to 
call  apparent  contradictions.  Fools  and  detractors, 
having  no  knowledge  of  the  influences  that  act  upon 
superior  minds,  make  the  most  of  superficial  incon- 
sistencies, to  bring  accusations  on  which  thej-  sit  in 
judgment.  If,  later,  success  attends  the  labors  of  a 
man  thus  attacked,  showing  the  correlation  of  prepa- 
rations and  results,  a  few  of  the  past  calumnies  are 
sure  to  remain  fixed  upon  him.  In  our  day  Napoleon 
was  condemned  by  contemporaries  when  his  eagles 
threatened  England  ;  it  needed  1822  to  explain  1804 
and  the  flat-boats  of  Boulogne. 


The  Atheist's  Mass.  197 

Desplein's  fame  and  science  were  invulnerable;  his 
enemies  therefore  found  fault  with  his  odd  temper, 
his  peculiar  character,  —  the  fact  being  that  he  merely 
possessed  that  quality  which  the  English  call  "eccen- 
tricity." At  times  gorgeously  dressed,  like  the  tragic 
Cre billon,  he  would  change  suddenly  to  a  singular  in- 
difference in  the  matter  of  clothes ;  sometimes  he  drove 
in  his  carriage,  sometimes  he  went  about  on  foot.  By 
turns  rough  and  kind,  apparently  crabbed  and  stingy, 
he  was  capable  of  offering  his  whole  fortune  to  his  ex- 
iled masters,  who  did  him  the  honor  to  accept  it  for  a 
few  daj's ;  no  man  was  therefore  more  liable  to  con- 
tradictory judgments.  Though  capable,  in  order  to 
win  that  black  ribbon  which  physicians  ought  never 
to  have  solicited,  of  dropping  a  prayer-book  from  his 
pocket  in  some  room  at  the  palace,  it  was  more  because 
in  his  heart  he  sneered  at  all  things.  He  had  the  deep- 
est contempt  for  men,  having  examined  them  from  head 
to  foot,  having  detected  their  veritable  being  through  all 
the  acts  of  existence,  the  most  solemn  and  the  most  in- 
significant. In  great  men  great  qualities  often  support 
and  require  each  other.  Though  some  among  these 
Colossi  may  have  more  faculty  than  mind,  their  minds 
are  nevertheless  more  enlightened  than  that  of  others 
of  whom  the  world  says  simply,  '*They  are  men  of 
mind."  All  genius  presupposes  a  moral  insight ;  that 
insight  may  be  applied  to  some  specialty,  but  whoso 


198  The  Atheufs  Mass. 

can  see  a  flower  can  see  the  sun.  The  story  is  told  of 
Desplein  that  when  he  heard  a  diplomate,  whose  life  he 
had  saved,  asking  "  How  is  the  Emperor?"  he  replied, 
"The  courtier  returns,  the  man  will  follow,"  —  proving 
that  he  was  not  onlj^  a  great  surgeon  and  a  great  phy- 
sician, but  wonderfully  wise  and  witty.  So  the  patient 
and  assiduous  student  of  humanit}^  will  admit  the  ex- 
orbitant claims  of  Desplein,  and  will  think  him,  as  he 
thought  himself,  fit  to  be  as  great  a  statesman  as  he 
was  a  surgeon. 

Among  the  enigmas  offered  to  the  eyes  of  contempo- 
raries by  Desplein's  life  we  liave  chosen  one  of  the  most 
interesting,  because  of  its  final  word,  which  may,  per- 
haps, vindicate  his  memory  from  certain  accusations. 

Of  all  the  pupils  whom  the  great  surgeon  had  taught 
in  his  hospital,  Horace  Bianchon  was  the  one  to  whom 
he  was  most  attached.  Before  becoming  a  house  pupil 
at  the  Hotel-Dieu,  Horace  Bianchon  was  a  medical  stu- 
dent living  in  a  miserable  pension  in  the  Latin  quarter, 
known  under  the  name  of  the  Maison  Vauquer.  There 
the  poor  young  fellow  felt  the  assaults  of  bitter  povert}-, 
that  species  of  crucible  from  which  great  talents  issue 
pure  and  incorruptible  as  diamonds  which  can  bear  all 
blows  and  never  break.  From  the  strong  fires  of  their 
vehement  passions  such  natures  acquire  an  uncompro- 
mising rectitude  ;  they  gain  the  habit  of  those  struggles 
which  are  the  lot  of  genius  through  constant  toil,  in 


The  Atheist's  Mass.  199 

the  dull  round  of  which  they  are  forced  to  keep  their 
balked  appetites. 

Horace  was  an  honorable  3'oung  man,  incapable  of 
paltering  with  his  sense  of  duty ;  given  to  deeds,  not 
words ;  read}'  to  pawn  his  cloak  for  a  friend,  or  to  give 
him  his  time  and  his  nights  in  watching.  Horace  was, 
indeed,  one  of  those  friends  who  care  nothing  for  what 
they  receive  in  exchange  for  what  the}^  give,  sure  of 
finding  a  return  in  their  hearts  far  greater  than  the 
value  of  their  gift.  Most  of  his  friends  felt  that  in- 
ward respect  for  him  which  virtue  without  assumption 
inspires,  and  many  among  them  feared  his  censure. 
Horace  displayed  his  fine  qualities  without  conceit. 
Neither  a  puritan  nor  a  serraonizer,  he  gave  advice 
with  an  oath,  and  was  ready  enough  for  a  "  trongon 
de  chiere  lie  "  when  occasion  offered.  A  jolly  comrade, 
no  more  prudish  than  a  cuirassier,  frank  and  open,  — 
not  as  a  sailor,  for  sailors  now-a-days  are  wily  diplo- 
mates,  — but  like  a  brave  young  fellow  with  nothing  to 
conceal  in  his  life,  he  walked  the  earth  with  his  head 
up  and  his  thoughts  happy.  To  express  him  in  one 
sentence,  Horace  was  the  Pylades  of  more  than  one 
Orestes,  creditors  being  in  these  days  the  nearest 
approach  to  the  ancient  Furies.  He  carried  his  pov- 
erty with  an  easy  gayety  which  is  perhaps  one  of 
the  greatest  elements  of  courage,  and  like  all  those 
who  have  nothing  he  contracted  few  debts.     Sober  as 


200  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

a  camel,  agile  as  a  deer,  he  was  firm  in  his  ideas,  and 
in  his  conduct.  Bianchon's  successful  life  may  be 
said  to  have  begun  on  the  day  when  the  illustrious 
surgeon  became  fully  aware  of  the  virtues  and  the 
defects  which  made  Doctor  Horace  Bianchon  so  doubly 
dear  to  his  friends. 

When  a  clinical  chief  takes  a  young  man  into  his 
rounds  that  young  man  has,  as  they  say,  his  foot  in  the 
stirrup.  Desplein  always  took  Bianchon  with  him  for 
the  sake  of  his  assistance  when  he  went  among  his  opu- 
lent patients,  where  many  a  fee  dropped  into  the  pupil's 
pouch,  and  where,  little  by  little,  the  mysteries  of 
Parisian  life  revealed  themselves  to  his  provincial  eyes. 
Desplein  kept  him  in  his  study  during  consultations 
and  employed  him  there ;  sometimes  he  sent  him  trav- 
elling with  a  rich  patient  to  baths  ;  in  short,  he  provided 
him  with  a  practice.  The  result  was  that,  after  a  time, 
the  autocrat  of  surgery  had  an  alter  ego.  These  two 
men  —  one  at  the  summit  of  science  and  of  all  honors, 
enjoj'ing  a  large  fortune  and  a  great  fame ;  the  other, 
the  modest  omega,  without  either  fame  or  fortune  —  be- 
came intimates.  The  great  Desplein  tofl  his  pupil  every- 
thing ;  the  pupil  knew  what  woman  had  been  seated  in 
a  chair  beside  the  master,  or  on  the  famous  sofa  which 
was  in  the  study  and  on  which  Desplein  slept ;  Bian- 
chon knew  the  m3^sterie8  of  that  temperament,  half- 
lion,  half-bull,  which   finally  expanded   and   amplified 


The  Atheist's  Mass.  201 

beyond  all  reason  the  great  man's  chest,  and  caused 
his  death  by  enlargement  of  the  heart.  He  studied 
the  eccentricities  of  that  busy  life,  the  schemes  of 
that  sordid  avarice,  the  hopes  of  the  politic  man  hid- 
den in  the  scientific  man ;  he  was  therefore  fitted  to 
detect  the  deceptions,  had  an}-  existed,  in  the  sole 
sentiment  buried  in  a  heart  that  was  less  hard  than 
hardened. 

One  day  Bianchon  told  Desplein  that  a  poor  water- 
carrier  in  the  quartier  Saint-Jacques  had  a  horrible 
disease  caused  by  over-work  and  poverty;  this  poor 
Auvergnat  had  eaten  nothing  but  potatoes  during  the 
severe  winter  of  1821.  Desplein  left  all  his  patients 
and  rushed  off,  followed  by  Bianchon,  and  took  the 
poor  man  himself  to  a  private  hospital  established  by 
the  famous  Dubois,  in  the  faubourg  Saint-Denis.  He 
attended  the  man  personall}^  and  when  he  recovered 
gave  him  enough  mone}'  to  buy  a  horse  and  a  water- 
cart.  This  Auvergnat  was  remarkable  for  an  original 
act.  One  of  his  friends  fell  ill,  and  he  took  him  at 
once  to  Desplein,  saying  to  his  benefactor,  "  I  would  n't 
hear  of  his  g^ng  to  any  one  else."  Gruff  as  he  was, 
Desplein  pressed  the  water-carrier's  hand.  ' '  Bring 
them  all  to  me,"  he  said ;  and  he  put  the  friend  in  the 
Hdtel-Dieu,  where  he  took  extreme  care  of  him.  Bian- 
chon had  already  noticed  several  times  the  evident 
predilection   his  chief  felt  for  an  Auvergnat,  and  es- 


202  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

pecially  for  a  water-carrier,  but  as  Desplein*s  pride  was 
in  the  management  of  his  hospital  cases  the  pupil  saw 
nothing  really  strange  in  the  incident. 

One  day,  crossing  the  place  Saint-Sulpice,  Bianchon 
caught  sight  of  his  master  entering  the  church  about 
nine  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Desplein,  who  at  that 
time  of  his  life  went  everywhere  in  his  cabriolet,  was 
on  foot,  and  was  slipping  along  b}'  the  rue  du  Petit- 
Lion  as  if  in  quest  of  some  questionable  resort.  Natu- 
rall}"  seized  with  curiosity,  the  pupil,  who  knew  the 
opinions  of  his  master,  slipped  into  Saint-Sulpice  him- 
self, and  was  not  a  little  amazed  to  see  the  great 
Desplein,  that  atheist  without  pity  even  for  the  angels 
who  so  little  require  a  scalpel  and  cannot  have  stomach- 
aches or  fistulas,  in  short,  that  bold  scoffer,  humbly 
kneeling  —  where  ?  in  the  chapel  of  the  Virgin,  before 
whom  he  was  hearing  a  mass,  paying  for  the  service, 
giving  money  for  the  poor,  and  as  serious  in  demeanor 
as  if  preparing  for  an  operation. 

' '  Heavens  ! "  thought  Bianchon,  whose  amazement 
was  beyond  all  bounds.  "  If  I  had  seen  him  holding 
one  of  the  ropes  of  the  canopy  at  the  F§te-Dieu  I 
should  have  known  it  was  all  a  joke ;  but  here,  at  this 
hour,  alone,  without  witnesses !  Certainly  it  is  some- 
thing to  think  about." 

Not  wishing  to  seem  to  spy  upon  the  great  surg-^on 
of  the  Hotel-Dieu,  Bianchon  went  away.     It  so  chan--^ 


The  Atheist's  Mass,  203 

that  Desplein  asked  him  to  dine  with  him  that  daj', 
away  from  home,  at  a  restaurant.  By  the  time  the 
dessert  appeared  Bianchon  had  reached  by  clever  stages 
the  topic  of  religious  serv'ices,  and  called  the  mass  a 
a  farce  and  a  mummer}-. 

"A  farce,"  said  Desplein,  "which  has  cost  Chris- 
tianity more  blood  than  all  the  battles  of  Napoleon  and 
all  the  leeches  of  Broussais.  The  mass  is  a  papal 
invention  based  on  the  Hoc  est  corpus,  aud  dates  back 
to  the  sixth  century  onl}'.  What  torrents  of  blood  had 
to  flow  to  establish  the  Fgte-Dieu,  by  the  institution  of 
which  the  court  of  Rome  sought  to  confirm  its  victory 
in  the  matter  of  the  Real  Presence, — a  schism  which 
kept  the  church  in  hot  water  for  three  centuries  !  The 
wars  of  the  Comte  de  Toulouse  and  the  Albigenses  were 
the  sequel  of  it.  The  Vaudois  and  the  Albigenses  both 
refused  to  accept  that  innovation  —  " 

And  Desplein  launched  with  aU  an  atheist's  ardor  into 
a  flux  of  Voltairean  sarcasm,  or,  to  be  more  exact,  into 
a  wretched  imitation  of  the  *'  Citateur." 

"Whew!"  thought  Bianchon;  "  where *s  the  man 
who  was  on  his  knees  this  morning?" 

He  was  silent,  for  he  began  to  doubt  whether  he  had 
really  seen  his  chief  at  Saint-Sulpice  after  all.  Desplein 
would  surely  never  have  troubled  himself  to  deceive 
him.  They  knew  each  other  too  well,  had  exchanged 
thoughts  or  questions  fully  as  serious,  and  discussed 


204  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

systems  de  natura  rerum^  probing  them  or  dissecting 
them  with  the  knife  and  scalpel  of  unbelief. 

Six  months  went  by.  Bianchon  took  no  outward 
notice  of  this  circumstance,  though  it  remained  stamped 
in  his  memory.  One  day  a  doctor  belonging  to  the 
Hotel-Dieu  took  Desplein  by  the  arm  in  Bianchon's 
presence  as  if  to  question  him,  and  said,  — 

"  Why  did  you  go  to  Saint-Sulpice  to-day,  my  dear 
master  ?  " 

''  To  see  a  priest  with  caries  of  the  knee  whom 
Madame  la  Duchesse  d'Angoul^me  did  me  the  honor 
to  recommend  to  me,"  replied  Desplein. 

The  doctor  was  satisfied,  but  not  so  Bianchon. 

"  Ha !  he  went  to  see  a  stiff  knee  in  a  church, 
did  he?"  thought  the  pupil.  "He  went  to  hear  his 
mass." 

Bianchon  resolved  to  watch  Desplein.  He  recollected 
the  day  and  hour  at  which  he  had  seen  him  entering 
Saint-Sulpice,  and  he  determined  to  return  the  next 
year  at  the  same  time  and  see  if  he  should  surprise 
him  in  the  same  place.  If  so,  then  the  periodicity  of 
his  devotion  would  warrant  scientific  investigation ;  for 
it  was  impossible  to  expect  in  such  a  man  a  positive 
contradiction  between  thought  and  action. 

The  following  year,  at  the  time  named,  Bianchon, 
who  was  now  no  longer  Desplein's  pupil,  saw  the 
surgeon's  cabriolet  stop  at  the  corner  of  the  rue  de 


The  Atheist's  Mass.  205 

Tournon  and  the  rue  du  Petit-Lion,  from  which  point 
his  friend  sUpped  jesuitically  along  the  wall  of  the 
church,  where  he  again  entered  and  heard  mass  be- 
fore the  altar  of  the  Virgin.  Yes,  it  assuredly  was 
Desplein,  the  surgeon-in-chief,  the  atheist  in  petto,  the 
pietist  by  chance.  The  plot  thickened.  The  persist 
ency  of  the  illustrious  surgeon  added  a  complication. 

When  Desplein  had  left  the  church,  Bianchon  went 
up  to  the  verger,  who  was  rearranging  the  altar,  and 
asked  him  if  that  gentleman  were  in  the  habit  of 
coming  there. 

"It  is  twenty  years  since  I  came  here,"  said  the 
verger,  *'  and  ever  since  then  Monsieur  Desplein  comes 
four  times  a  year  to  hear  this  mass.     He  founded  it." 

''A  mass  founded  by  him!"  thought  Bianchon  as 
he  walked  away.  "It  is  a  greater  mystery  than  the 
Immaculate  Conception,  —  a  thing,  in  itself,  which  would 
make  any  doctor  an  unbeliever." 

Some  time  went  by  before  Doctor  Bianchon,  though 
Desplein's  friend,  was  in  a  position  to  speak  to  him  of 
this  singularity  of  his  life.  When  they  met  in  consul- 
tation or  in  societ}^  it  was  difficult  to  find  that  moment 
of  confidence  and  solitude  in  which  they  could  sit  with 
their  feet  on  the  andirons,  and  their  heads  on  the  back 
of  their  chairs,  and  tell  their  secrets  as  two  men  do  at 
such  times.  At  last,  however,  after  the  revolution  of 
1830,  when  the  populace  attacked  the  Archbishop's 


206  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

palace,  when  republican  instigations  drove  the  crowd 
to  destro}^  the  gilded  crosses  which  gleamed  like  flashes 
of  lightning  among  the  man}^  roofs  of  that  ocean  of 
houses,  when  unbelief,  keeping  pace  with  the  riot, 
strutted  openly  in  the  streets,  Bianchon  again  saw 
Desplein  entering  Saint-Sulpice.  He  followed  him  and 
knelt  beside  him,  but  his  friend  made  no  sign  and 
showed  not  the  least  surprise.  Together  they  heard 
the  mass. 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Bianchon, 
when  they  had  left  the  church,  ' '  the  reason  for  this 
pious  performance?  This  is  the  third  time  I  have 
caught  you  going  to  mass,  you!  You  must  tell  me 
what  this  mystery  means,  and  explain  the  discrepancy 
between  3^our  opinions  and  your  conduct.  You  don't 
believe,  but  you  go  to  mass !  My  dear  master,  I  hold 
you  bound  to  answer  me." 

"I  am  like  a  great  many  pious  people,  —  men  who 
are  deeply  religious  to  all  appearance,  but  who  are 
really  as  much  atheists  at  heart  as  30U  or  I  —  " 

And  he  went  on  with  a  torrent  of  sarcasms  on  certain 
political  personages,  the  best  known  of  whom  presents 
to  this  century  a  new  and  living  edition  of  the  Tartu fe 
of  Moliere. 

"I am  not  talking  to  you  about  that,"  said  Bianchon ; 
"  I  want  to  know  the  reason  for  what  you  have  just 
done ;  and  why  you  founded  that  mass  ?  " 


The  Atheist's  Mass.  207 

"Ah,  well!  my  dear  friend,"  replied  Desplein,  "I 
am  on  the  verge  of  my  grave,  and  I  can  afford  to  tell 
you  the  events  of  my  early  life." 

Just  then  Bianchon  and  the  great  surgeon  were  pass- 
ing through  the  rue  des  Quatre- Vents,  one  of  the  most 
horrible  streets  in  Paris.  Desplein  pointed  to  the  sixth 
story  of  a  house  that  looked  like  an  obelisk,  the  gate  of 
which  opened  upon  a  passage-way  at  the  end  of  which 
was  a  winding  stair  lighted  by  holes  in  the  planked  side 
of  it.  It  was  a  greenish-looking  house,  occupied  on  the 
ground-floor  by  a  furniture-dealer,  and  seeming  to 
harbor  on  each  story  some  different  form  of  povert3% 
Desplein  threw  up  his  arm  with  an  energetic  action 
and  said  to  Bianchon,  "I  once  lived  up  there  for  two 
years." 

**  I  know  the  house ;  d*Arthez  lived  in  it.  I  went 
there  nearly  every  day  in  m^^  earl}'  youth ;  we  used  to 
call  it  the  '  harbor  of  great  men.'     Well,  what  next?" 

*'The  mass  I  have  just  heard  is  connected  with  events 
which  happened  when  I  lived  in  the  garret  where  you 
say  d'Arthez  lived,  —  that  one,  where  3'ou  see  the 
clothes-line  and  the  linen  above  the  flower-pots.  My 
beginnings  were  so  hard,  my  dear  Bianchon,  that  I 
can  bear  away  the  palm  of  Parisian  sufferings  from 
every  one,  no  matter  who.  I  have  endured  all,  —  hun- 
ger, thirst,  the  want  of  a  pennj',  of  linen,  boots,  all, 
even  the  worst  that  poverty  can  bring.     I  have  blown 


208  The  Atheist's  Mass, 

upon  my  frozen  fingers  in  that  harbor  of  great  men, 
which  I  should  like  now  to  see  again  with  3'ou.  I  have 
worked  there  a  whole  winter  and  seen  the  vapor  issu- 
ing from  m^^  head  just  as  3'ou  see  horses  smoking  in 
frosty  weather. 

''  I  don't  know  where  a  man  can  take  his  stand  and 
find  support  against  a  life  like  that.  I  was  alone,  with- 
out help,  without  a  sou  to  buy  books,  or  to  pay  the 
costs  of  my  medical  education ;  having  no  friend  to 
understand  me,  my  irascible  temper,  uneasy  and 
touchy  as  it  is,  did  me  harm.  No  one  saw  in  my  irri- 
table ways  the  evidence  of  the  anxiety  and  toil  of  a 
man  who  from  the  lowest  social  state  is  struggling  to 
reach  the  surface.  But  I  had,  —  and  this  I  can  saj-  to 
you  before  whom  there  is  no  need  that  I  should  drape 
myself,  —  I  had  that  understratum  of  right  feelings  and 
keen  sensibility  which  will  always  be  the  attribute  of 
men  who  are  strong  enough  to  mount  a  height,  no 
matter  what  it  is,  after  paddling  long  in  the  swamps 
of  misery.  I  could  ask  nothing  of  my  family,  nor  of 
my  native  town,  beyond  the  insufficient  allowance  that 
they  made  me. 

"  Well,  at  this  time  of  my  life,  I  made  my  breakfast 
of  a  roll  sold  to  me  by  the  baker  of  the  rue  du  Petit- 
Lion  at  half-price,  because  it  was  a  day  or  two  days 
old,  and  I  crumbled  it  into  some  milk.  So  my  morning 
repast  cost  me  exactly  two  sous.     I  dined,  ever}'  other 


The  Atheist's  Mass.  209 

day  onl}',  in  a  pension  wliere  the  dinner  cost  sixteen 
sous.  Tlius  I  spent  no  more  than  ten  sous  a  day. 
You  know  as  well  as  I  do  what  care  I  had  to  take  of 
my  clothes  and  my  boots  !  I  really  can't  tell  whether 
we  suffer  more  in  after  3'ears  from  the  treachery  of  a 
tried  friend  than  you  and  I  have  suffered  from  the 
smiling  grin  of  a  crack  in  our  boots,  or  the  threadbare 
look  of  a  coat-sleeve.  I  drank  nothing  but  water,  and 
I  held  the  cafes  in  reverence.  Zoppi  seemed  to  me  the 
promised  land,  where  the  Luculluses  of  the  Latin  quarter 
alone  had  the  right  of  entrance.  '  Shall  I  ever,'  I 
used  to  say  to  myself,  '  drink  a  cup  of  coffee  there, 
with  cream,  and  play  a  game  of  dominoes?  ' 

*'  So  I  let  loose  upon  my  work  the  rage  m}^  misery 
caused  me.  I  tried  to  possess  m}' self  of  positive  knowl- 
edge, so  as  to  have  a  vast  personal  value,  and  thus  de- 
serve distinction  when  the  day  came  that  I  should  issue 
from  my  nothingness.  I  consumed  more  oil  than  bread  ; 
the  lamp  which  lighted  me  during  those  toilsome  nights 
cost  me  more  than  all  my  food.  The  struggle  was  long, 
obstinate,  and  without  alleviation.  I  awakened  no  sym- 
path}'  in  any  one  about  me.  To  have  friends  we  must 
be  friendly  with  young  men,  we  must  have  a  few  sous 
to  tipple  with,  we  must  frequent  the  places  where  other 
students  go ;  but  I  had  nothing !  Who  is  there  in 
Paris  who  realizes  that  nothing  is  nothing?  When  I 
was  forced  at  times  to  reveal  my  povert}'^  m}"  throat 
14 


210  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

contracted  just  as  it  does  with  our  patients,  who  then 
imagine  that  a  ball  is  rolling  up  from  the  oesophagus  to 
the  larj-nx.  In  later  j^ears  1  have  met  these  people, 
born  rich,  who,  never  having  wanted  for  any  thing,  knew 
nothing  of  the  problem  of  this  rule  of  three  :  A  young 
man  is  to  crime  what  a  five-franc  piece  is  to  x.  These 
gilded  imbeciles  would  say  to  me :  '  But  why  do  you 
run  in  debt?  why  do  you  saddle  yourself  with  obliga- 
tions?* They  remind  me  of  the  princess  who,  when 
she  heard  the  people  were  djing  for  want  of  bread, 
remarked  :  '  Wh}'  don't  the}'  buy  cake?* 

"  Well,  well,  I  should  like  to  see  one  of  those  rich 
fellows  who  complain  that  I  charge  them  too  dear  for 
my  operations, — 3'es,  I  should  like  to  see  one  of  them 
alone  in  Paris,  without  a  pennj^  to  bless  himself  with, 
without  a  friend,  without  credit,  and  forced  to  woil 
with  his  five  fingers  to  get  food.  What  would  he  do '. 
where  would  he  go  to  appease  his  hunger  ?  —  Bianchon, 
if  you  have  sometimes  seen  me  hard  and  bitter,  it  was 
when  I  was  setting  my  early  sufferings  against  the  un- 
feeling selfishness  of  which  I  have  had  ten  thousand 
proofs  in  the  upper  ranks  of  life  ;  or  else  1  was  thinkiiii: 
)f'  the  obstacles  which  hatred,  env}',  jealous^',  and  cal 
iimny  had  raised  between  success  and  me.  In  Paris, 
when  certain  persons  see  3-ou  about  to  put  j'our  foot  in 
the  stirrup  some  of  them  will  catch  you  by  the  tails  of 
your  coat,  others  will  loosen  the  buckles  of  the  belly- 


The  Atheist's  Mass.  211 

band  to  give  you  a  fall  which  will  crack  your  skull ; 
that  one  will  pull  the  nails  out  of  the  horses'  shoes,  that 
other  will  steal  your  whip ;  the  least  treacherous  is  he 
whom  you  see  approaching  with  a  pistol  to  blow  out 
your  brains. 

''  Ah  !  my  dear  lad,  you  have  talent  enough  to  be  soon 
plunged  into  the  horrible  strife,  the  incessant  warfare 
which  mediocrity  wages  against  superior  men.  If  you 
lose  twenty-five  louis  some  evening  the  next  da}'  you 
are  accused  of  being  a  gambler,  and  your  best  friends 
will  spread  the  news  that  3'ou  have  lost  twenty-five 
thousand  francs.  Have  a  headache,  and  they  *11  say 
you  are  insane.  Get  angr}',  and  the}'  '11  call  you  a 
Timon.  If,  for  the  purpose  of  resisting  this  battalion 
of  pygmies,  you  call  up  within  you  all  the  powers  you 
possess,  your  best  friends  will  cry  out  that  you  want  to 
destroy  everything,  that  you  want  to  rule,  to  tyrannize. 
In  short,  your  fine  qualities  are  called  defects,  your 
defects  vices,  and  your  vices  crimes.  Though  you  may 
save  a  patient  you  will  have  the  credit  of  killing  him  ; 
if  he  recovers,  you  have  sacrificed  his  future  life  to  the 
present ;  if  he  does  n't  die,  he  soon  will.  Slip,  and  you 
are  down  !  Make  an  invention,  claim  your  right  to  it, 
and  you  are  a  quarrelsome  knave,  a  stingy  man,  who 
won't  let  the  young  ones  have  a  chance. 

*'  And  so,  my  dear  fellow,  if  I  don't  believe  in  God, 
still  less  do  I  believe  in  man.     Don't  you  know  that 


212  The  Atheist" s  Mass, 

there  is  in  me  a  Desplein  who  is  totally  different  from 
the  Desplein  whom  the  world  traduces  ?  But  don't  let 
us  drag  that  mudd}'  pond. 

*'  Well,  to  go  back,  I  lived  in  that  house,  and  I  was 
working  to  pass  m}^  first  examination  and  I  had  n't  a 
brass  farthing.  You  know  !  —  I  had  reached  that  last 
extremit}^  where  a  man  saj^s,  '  I  '11  pawn !  *  I  had 
one  hope.  I  expected  a  trunk  of  underclothing  from 
m}'  home,  a  present  from  some  old  aunts,  who,  knowing 
nothing  of  Paris,  think  about  j^our  shirts,  and  imagine 
that  with  an  allowance  of  thirty  francs  a  month  their 
nephew  must  be  living  on  ortolans.  The  trunk  arrived 
one  day  when  I  was  at  the  hospital ;  the  carriage  cost 
forty  francs !  The  porter,  a  German  shoemaker  who 
lived  in  the  loft,  paid  the  money  and  kept  the  trunk. 
I  walked  about  the  rue  des  Fosses-Saint-Germain-des 
Pres  and  the  rue  de  L'Ecole-de-Medecine  without  being 
able  to  invent  any  stratagem  by  which  I  could  get 
possession  of  that  trunk  without  pacing  the  forty 
francs,  which  I  could,  of  course,  pay  at  once  as  soon 
as  I  had  sold  the  underclothes.  My  stupidity  was 
enough  to  prove  that  I  had  no  other  vocation  than  that 
of  surgery.  My  dear  Bianchon,  sensitive  souls  whose 
forces  work  in  the  higher  spheres  of  thought,  lack  the 
spirit  of  intrigue  which  is  so  fertile  in  resources  and 
schemes ;  their  good  genius  is  chance,  —  thej'  don't  seek, 
they  find. 


The  Atheist's  Mass.  213 

*'  That  night  I  entered  the  house  just  as  my  neigh- 
bor, a  water-carrier  named  Bourgeat,  from  Saint-Flour, 
came  home.  We  knew  each  other  as  two  tenants  must 
when  their  rooms  are  on  the  same  landing,  and  they 
hear  one  another  snore,  and  cough,  and  dress,  and 
at  length  become  accustomed  to  one  another.  My 
neiglibor  told  me  that  the  proprietor  of  the  house,  to 
whom  I  owed  three  months  rent,  had  turned  me  out ; 
I  was  warned  to  quit  the  next  da}'.  He  himself  was 
also  told  to  leave  on  account  of  his  occupation.  I 
passed  the  most  dreadful  night  of  my  life.  How  could 
I  hire  a  porter  to  carry  away  my  few  poor  things,  my 
books?  how  could  I  pay  him?  where  could  I  go? 
These  insoluble  questions  I  said  over  and  over  to 
myself  in  tears,  just  as  madmen  repeat  their  sing- 
song. I  fell  asleep.  Ah  !  poverty  alone  has  the  divine 
slumber  full  of  glorious  dreams  ! 

"  The  next  morning,  as  I  was  eating  my  bowlful  of 
bread  and  milk,  Bourgeat  came  in,  and  said  in  his 
patois,  *  Monsieur,  I  'm  a  poor  man,  a  foundling  from 
the  hospital  at  Saint-Flour,  without  father  or  mother, 
and  I  'm  not  rich  enough  to  marry.  You  are  no  bet- 
ter off  for  friends,  and  relations,  and  money,  as  I 
judge.  Now  listen ;  there  is  a  hand-cart  out  there 
which  I  have  hired  for  two  sous  an  hour ;  it  will  hold 
all  our  things ;  if  you  like,  we  can  go  and  find  some 
cheap  lodging  which  will  hold  us  both,  as  we  are  both 


214  The  Atheist's  Mass, 

turned  out  of  here.  After  all,  jo\x  know,  it  isn't  a 
terrestrial  paradise.*  '  I  know  that,'  I  said,  '  m}'  good 
Bourgeat,  but  1  am  in  a  great  quandary ;  I  have  a 
trunk  downstairs  which  contains  at  least  three  hun- 
dred francs'  worth  of  linen,  with  which  I  could  pay 
the  proprietor  if  I  could  only  get  it  from  the  porter,  to 
whom  I  owe  forty  francs  for  the  carriage.'  '  Bah  ! '  he 
cried,  cheerily,  '  I've  got  a  few  pennies  tucked  away  ;' 
and  he  pulled  out  a  dirty  old  leather  purse.  '  Keep  your 
linen  ;  you  '11  want  it.' 

"  Bourgeat  paid  my  three  months'  rent,  and  his  own, 
and  the  porter.  He  put  all  our  things  and  the  trunk 
into  his  hand-cart,  and  dragged  it  through  the  streets, 
stopping  before  each  house  where  a  sign  was  up.  Then 
I  went  in  to  see  if  the  place  would  suit  us.  At  mid- 
day we  were  still  wandering  round  the  Latin  quarter 
without  having  found  what  we  wanted.  The  price  was 
the  great  obstacle.  Bourgeat  invited  me  to  breakfast 
in  a  wine-shop,  leaving  the  hand-cart  before  the  door. 
Towards  evening,  I  found  in  the  Cour  de  Rohan,  pas- 
sage du  Commerce,  on  the  top-floor  of  a  house,  under 
the  roof,  two  rooms,  separated  b}^  the  staircase.  For  a 
yearly  rent  of  sixty  francs  each,  we  were  able  to  take 
them.  So  there  we  were,  housed,  my  humble  friend  and 
I.  We  dined  together.  Bourgeat,  who  earned  about 
fifty  sous  a  day,  possessed  something  like  three  hun- 
dred francs.     He  was  close  upon  realizing  his  great 


The  Atheist's  Mass.  215 

ambition,  which  was  to  bay  a  horse  and  a  water-cart. 
Learning  my  situation,  for  he  wormed  my  secrets  out 
of  me,  with  a  depth  of  cunning  and  an  air  of  good- 
fellowship  the  remembrance  of  which  to  this  day  stiis 
every  fibre  of  my  heart,  he  renounced,  for  a  time,  the 
ambition  of  his  life.  Bourgeat  never  attained  it;  he 
sacrificed  his  three  hundred  francs  to  my  future." 

Desplein  clasped  the  arm  he  held,  violently. 

*'  He  gave  me  the  mone}'  I  needed  for  m}-  examina- 
tions. That  man  —  my  friend  —  felt  that  I  had  a  mis- 
sion :  that  the  needs  of  my  intellect  were  greater  than 
his  own.  He  busied  himself  with  me  ;  he  called  me  his 
son  ;  he  lent  me  the  money  I  needed  to  bu}^  books  ;  he 
came  in  sometimes,  very  softly,  to  watch  me  at  work ; 
he  substituted,  with  the  forethought  of  a  mother,  a 
nourishing  and  sufficient  diet  for  the  poor  fare  to  which 
I  had  been  so  long  condemned.  Bourgeat,  a  man  then 
about  fort}"  3'ears  of  age,  had  a  middle-aged  burgher 
face,  a  prominent  forehead,  and  a  head  which  a  painter 
might  have  chosen  for  a  model  for  Lj'curgus.  The  poor 
soul  had  a  heart  full  of  unplaced  affection.  He  had 
never  been  loved  except  by  a  dog  which  had  recently 
died,  and  of  which  he  often  spoke  to  me,  asking  whether 
I  thought  the  Church  would  be  willing  to  say  masses 
for  the  repose  of  its  soul.  That  dog,  he  said,  was  a 
true  Christian,  who  for  twelve  3'ears  had  gone  with 
liim  to  church  and  never  barked,  listening  to  the  organ 


216  The  Atheist's  Mass. 

without  opening  his  jaws,  and  crouching  by  him  when 
he  knelt  as  if  he  prayed  also. 

*'That  man,  that  Auvergne  water-earner,  spent  all 
his  affection  upon  me.  He  accepted  me  as  a  lonelj-, 
suffering  human  being ;  he  became  my  mother,  my  deli- 
cate benefactor ;  in  short,  the  ideal  of  that  virtue  which 
delights  in  its  own  work.  When  I  met  him  about  his 
business  in  the  street  he  flung  me  a  glance  of  inconceiv- 
able generosity ;  he  pretended  to  walk  as  if  he  carried 
nothing ;  he  showed  his  happiness  in  seeing  me  in  good 
health  and  well-clothed.  His  devotion  to  me  was  that 
of  the  people, — the  love  of  a  grisette  for  one  above 
her.  Bourgeat  did  my  errands,  woke  me  at  night  when 
I  had  to  be  called,  cleaned  my  lamp,  polished  mj^  floor ; 
as  good  a  servant  as  a  kind  father,  and  as  clean  as 
an  English  girl.  He  kept  house.  Like  Philopoemen, 
he  sawed  our  wood,  and  gave  to  all  his  actions  the 
simple  dignity  of  toil ;  for  he  seemed  to  comprehend 
that  the  object  ennobled  all. 

' '  When  I  left  that  noble  man  to  enter  the  Hotel- 
Dieu  as  an  indoor  pupil,  he  suffered  dark  distress  from 
the  thought  that  he  could  no  longer  live  with  me ;  but 
he  consoled  himself  with  the  idea  of  laying  by  the 
money  required  for  the  expenses  of  my  thesis,  and  he 
made  me  promise  to  come  and  see  him  on  all  my  daj's 
out.  If  you  will  look  up  my  thesis  you  will  find  that 
it  is  dedicated  to  him. 


The  Atheist's  Mass,  217 

"  During  the  last  year  I  was  in  hospital  I  earned 
money  enough  to  return  all  I  owed  to  that  noble  Auver- 
gnat,  with  which  I  bought  him  his  horse  and  water-cart. 
He  was  very  angiy  when  he  found  out  I  had  deprived 
myself  of  my  earnings,  and  yet  delighted  to  see  his 
desires  realized ;  he  laughed  and  scolded,  looked  at  his 
cart  and  at  his  horse,  and  wiped  his  eyes,  saying  to  me : 
*  It  is  all  wrong.  Oh,  what  a  fine  cart !  You  had  no 
right  to  do  it ;  that  horse  is  as  strong  as  an  Auvergnat/ 
Never  did  I  see  anything  as  touching  as  that  scene. 
Bourgeat  positively  insisted  on  buying  me  that  case  of 
instruments  mounted  in  silver  which  you  have  seen  in 
mj^  study,  and  which  is  to  me  the  most  precious  of  my 
possessions.  Though  absolutely  intoxicated  by  my 
success,  he  never  b}^  word  or  gesture  let  the  thought 
escape  him,  'It  is  to  me  that  he  owes  it.'  And  yet, 
without  him,  miser}-  would  have  killed  me. 

**  The  poor  man  had  wrecked  himself  for  me ;  all  he 
ate  was  a  little  bread  rubbed  with  garlic,  that  I  might 
have  coffee  for  my  studious  nights.  He  fell  ill.  You 
can  well  believe  that  I  spent  nights  at  his  bedside.  I 
pulled  him  through  the  first  time,  but  he  had  a  relapse 
two  years  later,  and,  in  spite  of  all  my  care,  he  died. 
No  king  was  ever  cared  for  as  be  was.  Yes,  Bianchon, 
to  save  that  life  I  tried  amazing  things.  I  longed  to 
make  him  live  as  the  witness  of  his  own  work ;  to 
realize  his  hopes,  to  satisfy  the  sole  gratitude  that  ever 


218  The  Atheist's  Mass, 

entered  m}^  heart,  to  extinguish  a  fire  which  bums  there 
still. 

*'  Bourgeat,"  resumed  Desplein,  with  visible  emotion, 
"  my  second  father,  died  in  my  arms,  leaving  all  he  pos- 
sessed to  me,  in  a  will  drawn  up  by  a  street  writer  and 
dated  the  ^^ear  we  went  to  live  in  the  Cour  de  Rohan. 
That  man  had  the  faith  of  his  kind ;  he  loved  the 
Blessed  Virgin  as  he  would  have  loved  his  wife.  An 
ardent  Catholic,  he  never  said  one  word  to  me  about  my 
irreligion.  When  he  was  in  danger  of  death  he  asked 
me  to  spare  nothing  that  he  might  have  the  succor  of  the 
Church.  Every  day  masses  were  said  for  him.  Often 
during  the  night  he  would  tell  me  of  his  fears  for  the 
future ;  he  thought  he  had  not  lived  devoutly  enough. 
Poor  man  !  he  had  toiled  from  morning  till  night.  To 
whom  else  does  heaven  belong,  —  if  indeed  there  is  a 
heaven?  He  received  the  last  offices  of  religion,  like 
the  saint  that  he  was,  and  his  death  was  worth}'  of  his 
life.  I,  alone,  followed  him  to  the  grave.  When  the 
earth  covered  my  sole  benefactor  I  sought  a  wa}'  to 
pay  my  debt  to  him.  He  had  neither  familj',  nor 
friends,  nor  wife,  nor  children,  but,  he  believed !  he 
had  a  deep  religious  belief ;  what  right  had  I  to  dispute 
it?  He  had  timidlj^  spoken  to  me  of  masses  for  the 
repose  of  the  dead,  but  he  never  imposed  that  duty 
upon  me,  thinking,  no  doubt,  it  would  seem  like  paj^- 
ment  for  his  services.     The  moment  I  was  able  to 


The  Atheist's  Mass,  219 

found  a  mass  I  gave  Saint-Sulpice  the  necessary  sum 
for  four  j'earlj'  services.  As  the  sole  thing  I  can  offer 
to  Bourgeat  is  the  satisfaction  of  his  pious  w'shes,  I 
go  in  his  name  and  recite  for  him  the  appointed  prayers 
at  the  beginning  of  each  season.  I  say  with  the  sin- 
cerity of  a  doubter :  '  My  God,  if  there  be  a  sphere 
where  thou  dost  place  after  death  the  souls  of  the 
perfect,  think  of  the  good  Bourgeat;  and  if  there  is 
anything  to  be  suffered  for  him,  grant  me  those  suffer- 
ings that  he  may  the  sooner  enter  what,  they  sa^-,  is 
heaven.* 

"  That,  m}-  dear  friend,  is  all  a  man  of  my  opinions 
can  do.  God  must  be  a  good  sort  of  devil,  and  he  '11 
not  blame  me.  I  swear  to  you  I  would  give  all  I  am 
worth  if  Bourgeat's  belief  could  enter  my  brain." 

Biahchon,  who  took  care  of  Desplein  in  his  last 
illness,  dares  not  affirm  that  the  great  surgeon  died  an 
atheist.  Believers  will  like  to  think  that  the  humble 
water-carrier  opened  to  him  the  gates  of  heaven,  as  he 
had  once  opened  to  him  the  portals  of  that  terrestial 
temple  on  the  pediment  of  which  are  inscribed  the 
words :  — 

'*  To  HER  Great  Men,  a  grateful  Country  ! " 


1836. 


VVH«€II      ^<"*J     <i<^     4^011 


LA  GRANDE  BRETllCHE. 


**Ah!  Madame,"  replied  Doctor  Horace  Bianchon 
to  the  lad}^  at  whose  house  he  was  supping,  "it  is 
true  that  I  have  many  terrible  histories  in  my  reper- 
tory;  but  every  tale  has  its  due  hour  in  a  conversa- 
tion, according  to  the  clever  saying  reported  by 
Charafort  and  said  to  the  Due  de  Fronsac:  '*  There 
are  ten  bottles  of  champagne  between  3'our  joke  and 
the  present  moment." 

"But  it  is  past  midnight;  what  better  hour  could 
you  have?"  said  the  mistress  of  the  house. 

"Yes,  tell  us,  Monsieur  Bianchon,"  urged  the  as- 
sembled compan}'. 

At  a  gesture  from  the  complying  doctor,  silence 
reigned. 

"About  a  hundred  yards  from  Vend6me,"  he  said, 
"on  the  banks  of  the  Loir,  is  an  old  brown  house, 
covered  with  very  steep  roofs,  and  so  completely 
isolated  that  there  is  not  so  much  as  an  evil-smelling 
tannery,  nor  a  shabb}^  inn  such  as  you  see  at  the  en- 
trance of  all   little   towns,   in   its   neighborhood.     In 


222  La  Grande  Breteche. 

front  of  this  dwelling  is  a  garden  overlooking  the 
river,  where  the  box  edgings,  once  carefully  clipped, 
which  bordered  the  paths,  now  cross  them  and  straggle 
as  they  fancy.  A  few  willows  with  their  roots  in  the 
Loir  have  made  a  rapid  growth,  like  the  enclosing 
hedge,  and  together  they  half  hide  the  house.  Plants 
which  we  call  weeds  drape  the  bank  towards  the  river 
with  their  beautiful  vegetation.  Fruit-trees,  neglected 
for  half  a  score  of  years,  no  longer  yield  a  product,  and 
their  shoots  and  suckers  have  formed  an  undergrowth. 
The  espaliers  are  like  a  hornbeam  hedge.  The  paths, 
formerly  gravelled,  are  full  of  purslain ;  so  that,  strictly 
speaking,  there  are  no  paths  at  all. 

"From  the  crest  of  the  mountain,  on  which  hang 
the  ruins  of  the  old  castle  of  Vend6rae  (the  onl}^  spot 
whence  the  eye  can  look  down  into  this  enclosure)  we 
say  to  ourselves  that  at  an  earlier  period,  now  difficult 
to  determine,  this  corner  of  the  earth  was  the  delight 
of  some  gentleman  devoted  to  roses  and  tulips,  in  a 
word,  to  horticulture,  but  above  all  possessing  a  keen 
taste  for  good  fruits.  An  arbor  is  still  standing,  or 
rather  the  remains  of  one,  and  beneath  it  is  a  table 
which  time  has  not  yet  completely  demolished. 

''From  the  aspect  of  this  garden,  now  no  more,  the 
negative  joys  of  the  peaceful  life  of  the  provinces  can 
be  inferred,  just  as  we  infer  the  life  of  some  worthy 
from  the  epitaph  on  his  tomb.     To  complete  the  sad 


La   Grande  Breteche,  223 

and  tender  ideas  which  take  possession  of  the  soul,  a 
sundial  on  the  wall  bears  this  inscription,  Christian  3'et 
bourgeois,  '  Ultimam  Cogita/  The  roofs  are  dilapi- 
dated, the  blinds  always  closed,  the  balconies  are  filled 
with  swallows'  nests,  the  gates  are  locked.  Tall  herbs 
and  grasses  trace  in  green  lines  the  chinks  and  crevices 
of  the  stone  portico ;  the  locks  are  rust}-.  Sun  and 
moon,  summer  and  winter  and  snow  have  rotted  the 
wood,  warped  the  planks,  and  worn  away  the  paint. 
The  gloomy  silence  is  unbroken  save  b}'  the  birds,  the 
cats,  the  martens,  the  rats,  the  mice,  all  free  to  scamper 
or  fly,  and  to  fight,  and  to  eat  themselves  up. 

'*  An  invisible  hand  has  written  the  word  '  Mystery' 
everywhere.  If,  impelled  by  curiosit}',  you  wish  to 
look  at  this  house,  on  the  side  towards  the  road  you 
will  see  a  large  gate  with  an  arched  top,  in  which  the 
children  of  the  neighborhood  have  made  large  holes. 
This  gate,  as  I  heard  later,  had  been  disused  for  ten 
years.  Through  these  irregular  holes  you  can  observe 
the  perfect  harmony  which  exists  between  the  garden 
piVle,  and  the  courtyard   side   of  the   premises.     The 

'mo  neglect  everywhere.  Lines  of  grass  surround 
!)nving-stone8.  Enormous  cracks  furrow  the  walls, 
nlackened  eaves  of  which  are  festooned  with  pelli- 

>ry.  The  steps  of  the  portico  are  disjointed,  the  rope 
^A^  the  bell  is  rotten,  the  gutters  are  dropping  apart. 
What  fire  from  heaven  has  fallen  here?     What  tribunal 


224  La   Grande  Breteehe. 

has  ordained  that  salt  be  cast  upon  this  dwelling  ?  Has 
God  been  mocked  here ;  or  France  betra^^ed  ?  These 
are  the  questions  we  ask  as  we  stand  there ;  the  rep- 
tiles crawl  about  but  they  give  no  answer. 

"  This  empty  and  deserted  house  is  a  profound 
enigma,  whose  solution  is  known  to  none.  It  was 
formerl}^  a  small  fief,  and  is  called  La  Grande  Breteehe. 
During  my  sta}^  at  Vendome,  where  Desplein  had  sent 
me  in  charge  of  a  rich  patient,  the  sight  of  this  strange 
dwelling  was  one  of  m^^  keenest  pleasures.  It  was  bet- 
ter than  a  ruin.  A  ruin  possesses  memories  of  positive 
authenticity  ;  but  this  habitation,  still  standing,  though 
slowly  demolished  by  an  avenging  hand,  contained  some 
secret,  some  mysterious  thought,  —  it  betrayed  at  least 
a  strange  caprice. 

''  More  than  once  of  an  evening  I  jumped  the  hedge, 
now  a  tangle,  which  guarded  the  enclosure.  I  braved 
the  scratches ;  I  walked  that  garden  without  a  master, 
that  property  which  was  neither  public  nor  private  ;  for 
hours  I  sta3'ed  there  contemplating  its  deca}^  Not 
even  to  obtain  the  historj-  which  underlaj'  (and  to 
which  no  doubt  was  due)  this  strange  spectacle  would 
I  have  asked  a  single  question  of  an}^  gossiping  coun- 
tryman. Standing  there  I  invented  enchanting  tales  ; 
I  gave  mj'self  up  to  debauches  of  melancholj'  which 
fascinated  me.  Had  I  known  the  reason,  perhaps  a 
common  one,  for  tliis  strange  desertion,  I  should  have 


La  Q-rande  Bretiche.  225 

lost  the  unwritten  poems  with  which  I  intoxicated  m}'- 
self.  To  me  tnis  sanctuar}^  evoked  the  most  varied 
images  of  human  life  darkened  b}'  sorrows  ;  sometimes 
it  was  a  cloister  without  the  nuns  ;  sometimes  a  grave- 
yard and  its  peace,  without  the  dead  who  talk  to  3'ou  in 
epitaphs  ;  to-day  the  house  of  the  leper,  to-morrow  that 
of  the  Atrides ;  but  above  all  was  it  the  provinces  with 
their  composed  ideas,  their  hour-glass  life. 

*'  Often  I  wept  there,  but  I  never  smiled.  More  than 
once  an  involuntarj-  teiTor  seized  me,  as  I  heard  above 
mj'  head  the  muffled  whirr  of  a  ringdove's  wings 
/  Jiurrj'ing  past.  The  soil  is  damp  ;  care  must  be  taken 
'*•  against  the  lizards,  the  vipers,  the  frogs,  which  wander 
about  with  the  wild  liberty  of  nature ;  above  all,  it  is 
well  not  to  fear  cold,  for  there  are  moments  w^hen  you 
feel  an  icy  mantle  laid  upon  yoxxv  shoulders  like  the 
hand  of  the  Commander  on  the  shoulder  of  Don  Juan. 
One  evening  I  shuddered ;  the  wind  had  caught  and 
turned  a  rust}'  vane.  Its  creak  was  like  a  moan  issuing 
from  the  house ;  at  a  moment,  too,  when  I  was  ending 
a  gloomy  drama  in  which  I  explained  to  myself  the 
monumental  dolor  of  that  scene. 

''  That  night  I  returned  to  m}''  inn,  a  prey  to  gloomj^ 
thoughts.     After  I  had  supped  the  landlady  entered  my 
room  with  a  n^ysterious  air,  and   said   to  me,   '  Mon- 
sieur, Monsieur  Regnault  is  here.' 
*' '  Who  is  Monsieur  Regnault?* 
15 


226     *  La  Grande,  Breteche. 

"'Is  it  possible  that  Monsieur  does  n't  know  Mon- 
sieur Regnault?  Ah,  how  funny!*  she  said,  leaving 
the  room. 

"  Suddenly  I  beheld  a  long,  slim  man,  clothed  in  black, 
holding  his  hat  in  his  hand,  who  presented  himself, 
much  like  a  ram  about  to  leap  on  a  rival,  and  showed 
me  a  retreating  forehead,  a  small,  pointed  head  and  a 
livid  face,  in  color  somewhat  like  a  glass  of  dirty  water. 
You  would  have  taken  him  for  the  usher  of  a  minister. 
This  unknown  personage  wore  an  old  coat  much  worn 
in  the  folds,  but  he  had  a  diamond  in  the  frill  of  his 
shirt,  and  gold  earrings  in  his  ears. 

"  '  Monsieur,  to  whom  have  I  the  honor  of  speaking?  * 
I  said. 

"  He  took  a  chair,  sat  down  before  my  fire,  laid  his 
hat  on  my  table  and  replied,  rubbing  his  hands  :  '  Ah  ! 
it  is  very  cold.     Monsieur,  I  am  Monsieur  Regnault.* 

"I  bowed,  saying  to  myself:  '7/  hondo  cani! 
seek ! ' 

*'  *  I  am,*  he  said,  '  the  notary  of  Venddme.* 

'* '  Delighted,  monsieur,'  I  replied,  '  but  I  am  not  in 
the  way  of  making  my  will,  —  for  reasons,  alas,  too 
well-known  to  me.* 

"  'One  moment ! '  he  resumed,  raising  his  hand  as  if 
to  impose  silence ;  '  Permit  me,  monsieur,  permit  me ! 
I  have  learned  that  you  sometimes  enter  the  garden  of 
La  Grande  Breteche  and  walk  there  —  * 


La  Grande  Breteche.  227 

*'  '  Yes,  monsieur.' 

*'*One  moment!*  he  said,  repeating  his  gesture. 
*That  action  constitutes  a  misdemeanor.  Monsieur,  I 
come  in  the  name  and  as  testamentary  executor  of  the 
late  Comtesse  de  Merret  to  beg  3'ou  to  discontinue  3'our 
visits.  One  moment !  I  am  not  a  Turk ;  I  do  not  wish 
to  impute  a  crime  to  you.  Besides,  it  is  quite  excusable 
that  you,  a  stranger,  should  be  ignorant  of  the  circum- 
stances which  compel  me  to  let  the  handsomest  house 
in  Vendome  go  to  ruin.  Nevertheless,  monsieur,  as 
3'ou  seem  to  be  a  person  of  education,  you  no  doubt 
know  that  the  law  forbids  trespassers  on  enclosed 
property.  A  hedge  is  the  same  as  a  wall.  But  the 
state  in  which  that  house  is  left  may  well  excuse  your 
curiosity.  I  should  be  only  too  glad  to  leave  you  free 
to  go  and  come  as  30U  liked  there,  but  charged  as  I  am 
to  execute  the  wishes  of  the  testatrix,  I  have  the  honor, 
monsieur,  to  request  that  you  do  not  again  enter  that 
garden.  I  mjself,  monsieur,  have  not,  since  the  read- 
ing of  the  will,  set  foot  in  that  house,  which,  as  I  have 
alreadj'  had  the  honor  to  tell  3'ou,  I  hold  under  the  will 
of  Madame  de  Merret.  We  have  onl3"  taken  account 
of  the  number  of  the  doors  and  windows  so  as  to  assess 
the  taxes  which  I  pay  annually  from  the  funds  left  b3' 
the  late  countess  for  that  purpose.  Ah,  monsieur,  that 
will  made  a  great  deal  of  noise  in  Vendome  !  * 

'•There  the  worthy  man  paused  to  blow  his  nose. 


228  La   Grande  Breteche, 

I  respected  his  loquacity,  understanding  perfectly  that 
the  testamentary  bequest  of  Madame  de  Merret  had 
been  the  most  important  event  of  his  life,  the  head  and 
front  of  his  reputation,  his  glory,  his  Restoration.  So 
then,  I  must  bid  adieu  to  my  beautiful  reveries,  mj^ 
romances  !  I  was  not  so  rebellious  as  to  deprive  my- 
self of  getting  the  truth,  as  it  were  officially,  out  of  the 
man  of  law,  so  I  said,  — 

"  'Monsieur,  if  it  is  not  indiscreet,  may  I  ask  the 
reason  of  this  singularity?* 

*' At  these  words  a  look  which  expressed  the  pleas- 
ure of  a  man  who  rides  a  hobby  passed  over  Monsieur 
Regnault's  face.  He  pulled  up  his  shirt-collar  with  a 
certain  conceit,  took  out  his  snuff-box,  opened  it, 
offered  it  to  me,  and  on  my  refusal,  took  a  strong 
pinch  himself.  He  was  happy.  A  man  who  has  n't 
a  hobb}'  doesn't  know  how  much  can  be  got  out  of 
life.  A  hobby  is  the  exact  medium  between  a  passion 
and  a  monomania.  At  that  moment  I  understood 
Sterne's  fine  expression  to  its  fullest  extent,  and  I 
formed  a  complete  idea  of  the  joy  with  which  my  Uncle 
Toby  —  Trim  assisting  —  bestrode  his  war-horse. 

"'Monsieur,'  said  Monsieur  Regnault,  'I  was  for- 
merly head-clerk  to  Maitre  Roguin  in  Paris.  An  ex- 
cellent lawyer's  office  of  which  you  have  doubtless 
heard  ?  No  !  And  yet  a  most  unfortunate  failure  made 
it,  I  may  say,  celebrated.     Not  having  the  means  to 


La  Grande  Bretiche.  229 

buy  a  practice  in  Paris  at  the  price  to  which  the}'  rose 
in  1816,  I  came  here  to  Vendome,  where  I  have  re- 
lations, —  among  them  a  rich  aunt,  who  gave  me  her 
daughter  in  marriage.* 

''  Here  he  made  a  shght  pause,  and  then  resumed :  — 
"'Three  months  after  my  appointment  was  ratified 
b}'  Monseigneur  the  Keeper  of  the  Seals,  I  was  sent  for 
one  evening  just  as  I  was  going  to  bed  (I  was  not  then 
married)  by  Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Merret,  then 
living  in  her  chateau  at  Merret.  Her  lady's-maid,  an 
excellent  giri  who  is  now  serving  in  this  inn,  was  at 
the  door  with  the  countess's  carriage.  Ah !  one  mo- 
ment !  I  ought  to  tell  3'ou,  monsieur,  that  Monsieur 
le  Comte  de  Merret  had  gone  to  die  in  Paris  about 
two  months  before  I  came  here.  He  died  a  miserable 
death  from  excesses  of  all  kinds,  to  which  he  gave  him- 
self up.  You  understand?  Well,  the  da}'  of  his  de- 
parture Madame  la  Comtesse  left  La  Grande  Breteche, 
and  dismantled  it.  The}'  do  say  that  she  even  burned 
the  furniture,  and  the  carpets,  and  all  appurtenances 
whatsoever  and  wheresoever  contained  on  the  premises 
leased  to  the  said —  Ah !  beg  pardon ;  what  am  I  say- 
ing? I  thought  I  was  dictating  a  lease.  Well,  monsieur, 
she  burned  everything,  they  say,  in  the  meadow  at 
Merret.     Were  you  ever  at  Merret,  monsieur?' 

''  Not  waiting  for  me  to  speak,  he  answered  for  me : 
*  No.     Ah!   it  is  a  fine  spot?    For  three  months,  or 


230  La  Grande  Breteche, 

thereabouts,'  he  continued,  nodding  his  head,  *  Mon- 
sieur le  Comte  and  Madame  la  Comtesse  had  been 
living  at  La  Grande  Breteche  in  a  very  singular  way. 
They  admitted  no  one  to  the  house ;  madame  lived  on 
the  ground-floor,  and  monsieur  on  the  first  floor.  After 
Madame  la  Comtesse  was  left  alone  she  never  went  to 
church.  Later,  in  her  own  chateau  she  refused  to  see 
the  friends  who  came  to  visit  her.  She  changed  greatly 
after  she  left  La  Grande  Breteche  and  came  to  Merret 
That  dear  woman  (I  say  dear,  though  I  never  saw  her 
but  once,  because  she  gave  me  this  diamond),  — 
that  good  lady  was  very  ill ;  no  doubt  she  had  given 
up  all  hope  of  recovery,  for  she  died  without  calling 
in  a  doctor ;  in  fact,  some  of  our  ladies  thought  she 
was  not  quite  right  in  her  mind.  Consequently,  mon- 
sieur, my  curiosity  was  greatly  excited  when  I  learned 
that  Madame  de  Merret  needed  my  services;  and  I 
was  not  the  only  one  deeply  interested;  that  very 
night,  though  it  was  late,  the  whole  town  knew  I  had 
gone  to  Merret.' 

"The  good  man  paused  a  moment  to  arrange  his 
facts,  and  then  continued  :  *  The  lady's  maid  answered 
rather  vaguely  the  questions  which  1  put  to  her  as  we 
drove  along;  she  did,  however,  tell  me  that  her  mis- 
tress had  received  the  last  sacraments  that  day  from 
the  curate  of  Merret,  and  that  she  was  not  likely  to 
live  through  the  night.     I  reached  the  chateau  about 


La  Grande  Breteche,  231 

eleven  o'clock.  I  went  up  the  grand  staircase.  After 
passing  through  a  number  of  dark  and  loft}"  rooms, 
horribly  cold  and  damp,  I  entered  the  state  bedroom 
where  Madame  la  Comtesse  was  lying.  In  conse- 
quence of  the  many  stories  that  were  told  about  this 
lady  (really,  monsieur,  I  should  never  end  if  I  related 
all  of  them)  I  expected  to  find  her  a  fascinating  co- 
quette. Would  you  believe  it,  I  could  scarcel}-  see  her 
at  all  in  the  huge  bed  in  which  she  lay.  It  is  true  that 
the  only  light  in  that  vast  room,  with  friezes  of  the  old 
style  powdered  with  dust  enough  to  make  you  sneeze  on 
merely  looking  at  them,  was  one  Argand  lamp.  Ah ! 
but  3'ou  say  you  have  never  been  at  Merret.  Well, 
monsieur,  the  bed  was  one  of  those  old-time  beds  with 
a  high  tester  covered  with  flowered  chintz.  A  little 
night- table  stood  by  the  bed,  and  on  it  I  noticed  a  copy 
of  the  "  Imitation  of  Christ." 

*' 'Allow  me  a  parenthesis,*  he  said,  interrupting 
himself.  '  I  bought  that  book  subsequently,  also  the 
lamp,  and  presented  them  to  my  wife.  In  the  room 
was  a  large  sofa  for  the  woman  who  was  taking  care  of 
Madame  de  Merret,  and  two  chairs.  That  was  all.  No 
fire.  The  whole  would  not  have  made  ten  lines  of  an 
inventory.  Ah!  my  dear  monsieur,  could  you  have 
seen  her  as  I  saw  her  then,  in  that  vast  room  hung  with 
brown  tapestry,  you  would  have  imagined  30U  were  in 
the  pages  of  a  novel     It  was  glacial,  —  better  than  that, 


232  La  Grande  Bretiche. 

funereal,*  added  the  worthy  man,  raising  his  arm  the- 
atrically and  making  a  pause.     Presently  he  resumed  : 

*'  '  By  dint  of  peering  round  and  coming  close  to  the 
bed  I  at  length  saw  Madame  de  Merret,  thanks  to  the 
lamp  which  happened  to  shine  on  the  pillows.  Her  face 
was  as  yellow  as  wax,  and  looked  like  two  hands  joined 
together.  Madame  la  Comtesse  wore  a  lace  cap,  which, 
however,  allowed  me  to  see  her  fine  hair,  white  as  snow. 
She  was  sitting  up  in  the  bed,  but  apparently  did  so 
with  difficulty.  Her  large  black  eyes,  sunken  no  doubt 
with  fever,  and  almost  lifeless,  hardly  moved  beneath  the 
bones  where  the  eyebrows  usually  grow.  Her  forehead 
was  damp.  Her  fleshless  hands  were  like  bones  cov- 
ered with  thin  skin ;  the  veins  and  muscles  could  all  be 
seen.  She  must  once  have  been  ver}^  handsome,  but  now 
I  was  seized  with — I  couldn't  tell  3'ou  what  feeling,  as 
I  looked  at  her.  Those  who  buried  her  said  afterwards 
that  no  living  creature  had  ever  been  as  wasted  as  she 
without  djing.  Well,  it  was  awful  to  see.  Some  mor- 
tal disease  had  eaten  up  that  woman  till  there  was 
nothing  left  of  her  but  a  phantom.  Her  lips,  of  a  pale 
violet,  seemed  not  to  move  when  she  spoke.  Though 
my  profession  had  familiarized  me  with  such  scenes, 
in  bringing  me  often  to  the  bedside  of  the  dj'ing,  to 
receive  their  last  wishes,  I  must  say  that  the  tears  and 
the  anguish  of  families  and  friends  which  I  have  wit- 
nessed  were    as    nothing   compared   to   this    solitary 


La  Grande  JBreteohe.  233 

woman  in  that  vast  building.  I  did  not  hear  the  slight- 
est noise,  I  did  not  see  the  movement  which  the  breath- 
ing of  the  dying  woman  would  naturall}-  give  to  the 
sheet  that  covered  her ;  I  myself  remained  motionless, 
looking  at  her  in  a  sort  of  stupor.  Indeed,  I  fancy  I 
am  there  still.  At  last  her  large  eyes  moved ;  she 
tried  to  hft  her  right  hand,  which  fell  back  upon  the 
bed ;  then  these  words  Issued  from  her  lips  like  a 
breath,  for  her  voice  was  no  longer  a  voice,  — 

**  '  "I  have  awaited  you  with  impatience." 

**  *  Her  cheeks  colored.  The  effort  to  speak  was 
great.  The  old  woman  who  was  watching  her  here 
rose  and  whispered  in  my  ear :  *'  Don't  speak  ;  Madame 
la  Comtesse  is  past  hearing  the  slightest  sound ;  you 
would  only  agitate  her."  1  sat  down.  A  few  moments 
later  Madame  de  Merret  collected  all  her  remaining 
strength  to  move  her  right  arm  and  put  it,  not  witliout 
great  difficult}^,  under  her  bolster.  She  paused  an  in- 
stant; then  she  made  a  last  effort  and  withdrew  her 
hand  which  now  held  a  sealed  paper.  Great  drops  of 
sweat  rolled  from  her  forehead. 

tt  t  u  I  gjye  yQ^  jjjy  will,"  she  said.  **  Oh,  my 
God!    Oh!" 

"  'That  was  all.  She  seized  a  crucifix  which  lay  on 
her  bed,  pressed  it  to  her  lips  and  died.  The  expression 
of  her  fixed  eyes  still  makes  me  shudder  when  I  think 
of  it.     I  brought  away  the  will.     When  it  was  opened 


234  La   Grande  BretecJie. 

I  found  that  Madame  de  Merret  bad  appointed  me  her 
executor.  She  bequeathed  her  whole  property  to  the 
hospital  of  Vendome,  save  and  excepting  certain  be- 
quests. The  following  disposition  was  made  of  La 
Grande  Breteche.  I  was  directed  to  leave  it  in  the 
state  in  which  it  was  at  the  time  of  her  death  for  a 
period  of  fifty  3^ears  from  the  date  of  her  decease ;  I 
was  to  forbid  all  access  to  it,  by  any  and  every  one,  no 
matter  who ;  to  make  no  .repairs,  and  to  put  by  from 
her  estate  a  yearly  sum  to  pay  watchers,  if  they  were 
necessary,  to  insure  the  faithful  execution  of  these 
intentions.  At  the  expiration  of  that  time  the  estate 
was,  if  the  testatrix's  will  had  been  carried  out  in  all 
particulars,  to  belong  to  my  heirs  (because,  as  mon- 
sieur is  doubtless  well  aware,  notaries  are  forbidden  by 
law  to  receive  legacies)  ;  if  otherwise,  then  La  Grande 
Breteche  was  to  go  to  whoever  might  establish  a  right 
to  it,  but  on  condition  of  fulfilling  certain  orders  con- 
tained in  a  codicil  annexed  to  the  will  and  not  to  be 
opened  until  the  expiration  of  the  fifty  years.  The  will 
has  never  been  attacked,  consequently  —  * 

"  Here  the  oblong  notary,  without  finishing  his  sen- 
tence, looked  at  me  triumphantl3^  I  made  him  perfectly 
happy  with  a  few  compliments. 

"'Monsieur,*  I  said,  in  conclusion,  *you  have  so 
deeply  impressed  that  scene  upon  me  that  I  seem  to 
see  the  dying  woman,  whiter  than  the  sheets ;  those 


La   Grande  Breteche.  235 

glittering  eyes  horrify  me;  I  shall  dream  of  her  all 
night.  But  30U  must  have  formed  some  conjectures  as 
to  the  motive  of  that  extraordinary  will/ 

*' 'Monsieur/  he  replied,  with  comical  reserve,  'I 
never  permit  myself  to  judge  of  the  motives  of  those 
who  honor  me  with  the  gift  of  a  diamond.' 

"  However,  I  managed  to  unloose  the  tongue  of  the 
scrupulous  notar}^  so  far  that  he  told  me,  not  without 
long  digressions,  certain  opinions  on  the  matter  emanat- 
ing from  the  wise-heads  of  both  sexes  whose  judgments 
made  the  social  law  of  Vendome.  But  these  opinions 
and  observations  were  so  contradictory,  so  diffuse, 
that  I  well-nigh  went  to  sleep  in  spite  of  the  interest  I 
felt  in  this  authentic  story.  The  heavy  manner  and 
monotonous  accent  of  the  notary,  who  was  no  doubt  in 
the  habit  of  listening  to  himself  and  making  his  clients 
and  compatriots  Hsten  to  him,  triumphed  over  my  curi- 
osity.    Happily,  he  did  at  last  go  away. 

**  *  Ha,  ha !  monsieur,'  he  said  to  me  at  the  head  of 
the  stairs,  *  many  persons  would  like  to  live  their  forty- 
five  years  longer,  but,  one  moment !  *  —  here  he  laid  the 
forefinger  of  his  right  hand  on  his  nose  as  if  he  meant 
to  say,  Now  pay  attention  to  this  !  —  *  in  order  to  do 
that,  to  do  that,  they  ought  to  skip  the  sixties.' 

''  I  shut  my  door,  the  notary's  jest,  which  he  thought 
very  witty,  having  drawn  me  from  my  apathy ;  then  I 
sat  down  in  my  armchair  and  put  both  feet  on  the 


236  La  Grande  Breteche. 

andirons.  I  was  plunged  in  a  romance  a  la  Radcliffe, 
based  on  the  notarial  disclosures  of  Monsieur  Regnault, 
when  my  door,  softly  opened  by  the  hand  of  a  woman, 
turned  noiselessly  on  its  hinges. 

"  I  saw  my  landlady,  a  jovial,  stout  woman,  with  a 
fine,  good-humored  face,  who  had  missed  her  true  sur- 
roundings ;  she  was  from  Flanders,  and  might  have 
stepped  out  of  a  picture  by  Teniers. 

*''Well,  monsieur,'  she  said,  'Monsieur  Regnault 
has  no  doubt  recited  to  you  his  famous  tale  of  La 
Grande  Breteche?' 

'* '  Yes,  Madame  Lepas.* 

**' What  did  he  tell  you?* 

"  I  repeated  in  a  few  words  the  dark  and  chilling 
story  of  Madame  de  Merret  as  imparted  to  me  by  the 
notary.  At  each  sentence  my  landlady  ran  out  her 
chin  and  looked  at  me  with  the  perspicacity  of  an  inn- 
keeper, which  combines  the  instinct  of  a  policeman,  tlie 
astuteness  of  a  spy,  and  the  cunning  of  a  shopkeeper. 

"  'My  dear  Madame  Lepas,'  I  added,  in  conclusion, 
*  you  evidently  know  more  than  that.  If  not,  why  did 
you  come  up  here  to  me  ? ' 

"  '  On  the  word,  now,  of  an  honest  woman,  just  as 
true  as  my  name  is  Lepas  — ' 

"  '  Don't  swear,  for  your  eyes  are  full  of  the  secret. 
You  knew  Monsieur  de  Merret.  What  sort  of  man 
was  he?' 


La  Grande  Breteche,  237 

"  *  Goodness !  Monsieur  de  Merret?  well,  j-ou  see,  he 
was  a  handsome  man,  so  tall  you  never  could  see  the 
top  of  him,  —  a  very  worthy  gentleman  from  Picardy, 
who  had,  as  3'ou  ma^^  say,  a  temper  of  his  own  ;  and 
he  knew  it.  He  paid  every  one  in  cash  so  as  to  have 
no  quarrels.  But,  I  tell  you,  he  could  be  quick.  Our 
ladies  thought  him  very  pleasant.* 
** '  Because  of  his  temper?*  I  asked. 
*'' Perhaps,'  she  replied.  *You  know,  monsieur,  a 
man  must  have  something  to  the  fore,  as  they  say,  to 
marry  a  lady  like  Madame  de  Merret,  who,  without 
disparaging  others,  was  the  handsomest  and  the  rich- 
est woman  in  Vendome.  She  had  an  income  of  nearly 
twent}'  thousand  francs.  All  the  town  was  at  the  wed- 
ding. The  bride  was  so  dainty  and  captivating,  a  real 
little  jewel  of  a  woman.  Ah !  they  were  a  fine  couple 
in  those  days  ! ' 

"  '  Was  their  home  a  happy  one? ' 
'*  *  Hum,  hum !  yes  and  no,  so  far  as  any  one  can 
say ;  for  you  know  well  enough  that  the  like  of  us 
don't  live  hand  and  glove  with  the  like  of  them.  Ma- 
dame de  Merret  was  a  good  woman  and  verj-  charming, 
who  no  doubt  had  to  bear  a  good  deal  from  her  hus- 
band's temper ;  we  all  liked  her  though  she  was  rather 
haughty.  Bah  !  that  was  her  bringing  up,  and  she  was 
born  so.  When  people  are  noble  —  don't  you  see  ? ' 
'^  *  Yes,   but  there   must  have   been    some    terriblo 


238  La  Grande  Breteche. 

catastrophe,  for  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Merret  to 
separate  violentl}'.' 

*''I  never  said  there  was  a  catastrophe,  monsieur; 
I  know  nothing  about  it.' 

u  t  Yery  good  ;  now  I  am  certain  that  you  know  all.' 

"'Well,  monsieur,  I'll  tell  j^ou  all  I  do  know. 
When  I  saw  Monsieur  Regnault  coming  after  j'ou  I 
knew  he  would  tell  you  about  Madame  de  Merret  and 
La  Grande  Breteche ;  and  that  gave  me  the  idea  of 
consulting  monsieur,  who  seems  to  be  a  gentleman  of 
good  sense,  incapable  of  betraying  a  poor  woman  like 
me,  who  has  never  done  harm  to  any  one,  but  who  is, 
somehow,  troubled  in  her  conscience.  I  have  never 
dared  to  say  a  word  to  the  people  about  here,  for 
they  are  all  goss:ps,  with  tongues  like  steel  blades. 
And  there's  never  been  a  traveller  who  has  stayed 
as  long  as  you  have,  monsieur,  to  whom  I  could  tell 
all  about  the  fifteen  thousand  francs  —  * 

"  '  My  dear  Madame  Lepas/  I  replied,  trying  to  stop 
the  flow  of  words,  '  if  your  confidence  is  of  a  nature  to 
compromise  me,  I  would  n't  hear  it  for  worlds.' 

*' '  Oh,  don't  be  afraid,'  she  said,  interrupting  me. 
'You'll  see—' 

'^  This  haste  to  tell  made  me  quite  certain  I  was  not 
the  first  to  whom  my  good  landlady  had  communicated 
the  secret  of  which  I  was  to  be  the  sole  repositary,  so  I 
listened. 


La  Grande  Breteche.  239 

"  *  Monsieur,'  she  said,  '  when  the  Emperor  sent  the 
Spanish  and  other  prisoners  of  war  to  Vendome  I  lodged 
one  of  them  (at  the  cost  of  the  government) ,  —  a  young 
Spaniard  on  parole.  But  in  spite  of  his  parole  he  had 
to  report  every  day  to  the  sub-prefect.  He  was  a  gran- 
dee of  Spain,  with  a  name  that  ended  in  08  and  in  dia, 
like  all  Spaniards  —  Bagos  de  Feredia.  I  wrote  his 
name  on  the  register,  and  3'ou  can  see  it  if  3-ou  like. 
Oh,  he  was  a  handsome  young  fellow  for  a  Spaniard, 
who,  they  tell  me,  are  all  ugly.  He  was  n't  more  than 
five  feet  two  or  three  inches,  but  he  was  well  made. 
He  had  pretty  little  hands  which  he  took  care  of —  ah, 
you  should  just  have  seen  him !  He  had  as  many 
brushes  for  those  hands  as  a  woman  has  for  her  head. 
He  had  fine  black  hair,  a  fiery  eye,  a  rather  copper- 
colored  skin,  but  it  was  pleasant  to  look  at  all  the  same. 
He  wore  the  finest  linen  I  ever  saw  on  any  one,  and  I 
have  lodged  princesses,  and,  among  others,  General 
Bertrand,  the  Due  and  Duchesse  d'Abrantes,  Monsieur 
Decazes  and  the  King  of  Spain.  He  did  n't  eat  much  ; 
but  he  had  such  polite  manners  and  was  always  so  ami- 
able that  I  couldn't  find  fault  with  him.  Oh!  I  did 
really  love  him,  though  he  never  said  four  words  a  day 
to  me  ;  if  any  one  spoke  to  him,  he  never  answered,  — 
that's  an  oddity  those  grandees  have,  a  sort  of  mania, 
so  I  'm  told.  He  read  his  breviary  like  a  priest,  and  he 
went  to  mass  and  to  all  the  services  regularly.     Where 


240  La  Grande  Breteche, 

do  you  think  he  sat?  close  to  the  chapel  of  Madame  d& 
Merret  But  as  he  took  that  place  the  first  time  he  went 
to  church  nobod}^  attached  any  importance  to  the  fact, 
though  it  was  remembered  later.  Besides,  he  never 
took  his  eyes  off  his  prayer-book,  poor  young  man  !  * 

"  My  jovial  landlady  paused  a  moment,  overcome 
with  her  recollections ;  then  she  continued  her  tale : 

"  '  From  that  time  on,  monsieur,  he  used  to  walk  up 
the  mountain  every  evening  to  the  ruins  of  the  castle. 
It  was  his  only  amusement,  poor  man !  and  I  dare  say 
it  recalled  his  own  country ;  they  say  Spain  is  all 
mountains.  From  the  first  he  was  always  late  at  night 
in  coming  in.  I  used  to  be  uneasy  at  never  seeing  him 
before  the  stroke  of  midnight ;  but  we  got  accustomed 
to  his  ways  and  gave  him  a  key  to  the  door,  so  that  we 
did  n't  have  to  sit  up.  It  so  happened  that  one  of  our 
grooms  told  us  that  one  evening  when  he  went  to  bathe 
his  horses  he  thought  he  saw  the  grandee  in  the  dis- 
tance, swimming  in  the  river  like  a  fish.  When  he 
came  in  I  told  him  he  had  better  take  care  not  to  get 
entangled  in  the  sedges ;  he  seemed  annoyed  that  any 
one  had  seen  him  in  the  water.  Well,  monsieur,  one 
day,  or  rather,  one  morning,  we  did  not  find  him  in  his 
room ;  he  had  not  come  in.  He  never  returned.  I 
looked  about  and  into  everything,  and  at  last  I  found 
a  writing  in  a  table  drawer  where  he  had  put  away  fifty 
of  those  Spanish  gold  coins  called  ''  portugaise,"  which 


La  Grande  Bretiche.  241 

bring  a  hundred  francs  apiece ;  there  were  also  dia 
monds  worth  ten  thousand  francs  sealed  up  in  a  little 
box.  The  paper  said  that  in  case  he  should  not  return 
some  day,  he  bequeathed  to  ns  the  money  and  the 
diamonds,  with  a  request  to  found  masses  of  thanks- 
giving to  God  for  his  escape  and  safet3^  In  those  days 
m}^  husband  was  living,  and  he  did  ever3'thing  he  could 
to  find  the  3'oung  man.  But,  it  was  the  queerest  thing ! 
he  found  onl}'  the  Spaniard's  clothes  under  a  big  stone 
in  a  sort  of  shed  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  on  the  castle 
side,  just  opposite  to  La  Grande  Breteche.  My  hus- 
band went  so  earl}'  in  the  morning  that  no  one  saw  him. 
He  burned  the  clothes  after  we  had  read  the  letter,  and 
gave  out,  as  Comte  Fer^dia  requested,  that  he  had  fled. 
The  sub-prefect  sent  the  whob  gendarmerie  on  his 
traces,  but  bless  your  heart!  they  never  caught  him. 
Lepas  thought  the  Spaniard  had  drowned  himself.  But, 
monsieur,  I  never  thought  so.  I  think  he  was  somehow 
mixed  up  in  Madame  de  Merret's  trouble  ;  and  I  '11  tell 
you  why.  Rosalie  has  told  me  that  her  mistress  had  a 
crucifix  she  valued  so  much  that  she  was  buried  with  it, 
and  it  was  made  of  ebony  and  silver ;  now  when  Mon- 
sieur de  Feredia  first  came  to  lodge  with  us  he  had  just 
such  a  crucifix,  but  I  soon  missed  it.  Now,  monsieur, 
what  do  5'ou  say?  isn't  it  true  that  I  need  have  no 
remorse  about  those  fifteen  thousand  francs?  are  not 
they  rightfully  mine?' 

16 


242  La  Grande  Breteche, 

"  '  Of  course  they  are.  But  how  is  it  you  have  never 
questioned  Rosalie  ?  *  I  said. 

"  '  Oh,  I  have,  monsieur ;  but  I  can  get  nothing  out 
of  her.  That  girl  is  a  stone  wall.  She  knows  some- 
thing, but  there  is  no  making  her  talk.* 

"After  a  few  more  remarks,  my  landlady  left  me,  a 
prey  to  a  romantic  curiosity,  to  vague  and  darkling 
thoughts,  to  a  religious  terror  that  was  something  like 
the  awe  which  comes  upon  us  when  we  enter  by  night 
a  gloomy  church  and  see  in  the  distance  beneath  the 
arches  a  feeble  light ;  a  formless  figure  glides  before 
us,  the  sweep  of  a  robe  —  of  priest  or  woman  —  is 
beard  ;  we  shudder.  La  Grande  Breteche,  with  its  tall 
grasses,  its  shuttered  windows,  its  rusty  railings,  its 
barred  gates,  its  deserted  rooms,  rose  fantastically 
and  suddenly  before  me.  I  tried  to  penetrate  that 
mysterious  dwelling  and  seek  the  knot  of  this  most 
solemn  histor}^,  this  drama  which  had  killed  three 
persons. 

"  Rosalie  became  to  my  ey^^  the  most  interesting 
person  in  Vendome.  Examining  her,  I  discovered  the 
traces  of  an  ever-present  inward  thought.  In  spite  of 
the  health  which  bloomed  upon  her  dimpled  face,  there 
was  in  her  some  element  of  remorse,  or  of  hope;  her 
attitude  bespoke  a  secret,  like  that  of  devotees  who 
pray  with  ardor,  or  that  of  a  girl  who  has  killed  her 
child  and  forever  after  hears  its  cry.    And  yet  her  pos- 


La  Grande  Breteche,  243 

tnres  were  naive,  and  even  vulgar ;  her  silly  smile  was 
surely  not  criminal ;  you  would  have  judged  her  inno- 
cent if  only  by  the  large  neckerchief  of  blue  and  red 
squares  which  covered  her  vigorous  bust,  clothed,  con- 
fined, and  set  off  by  a  gown  of  purple  and  white  stripes. 
'  No,*  thought  I ;  'I  will  not  leave  Vend6me  without 
knowing  the  history  of  La  Grande  Breteche.  I  '11  even 
make  love  to  Rosalie,  if  it  is  absolutely  necessary,* 

*• '  Rosalie  ! '  I  said  to  her  one  day. 

"  '  What  is  it,  monsieur  ?  * 

*' '  You  are  not  married,  are  you?' 

She  trembled  slightly. 

*''0h!  when  the  fancy  takes  me  to  be  unhappy 
there  '11  be  no  lack  of  men,'  she  said,  laughing. 

*'  She  recovered  instantly  from  her  emotion,  what- 
ever it  was ;  for  all  women,  from  the  great  lady  to  the 
chambermaid  of  an  inn,  have  a  self-possession  of  their 
own. 

"  *  You  are  fresh  enough  and  taking  enough  to  please 
a  lover,'  I  said,  watching  her.  '  But  tell  me,  Rosalie, 
why  did  j'ou  take  a  place  at  an  inn  after  you  left  Ma- 
dame de  Merret  ?    Did  n't  she  leave  you  an  annuity  ? ' 

"  '  Oh,  yes,  she  did.  But,  monsieur,  my  place  is  the 
best  in  all  Vendome.* 

"This  answer  was  evidently  what  judges  and  lawj-ers 
call  *  dilatory.'  Rosalie's  position  in  this  romantic  his- 
tory was  like  that  of  a  square  on  a  checkerboard ;  she 


244  La  Grande  Breteche, 

was  at  the  very  centre,  as  it  were,  of  its  truth  and  its 
interest ;  she  seemed  to  me  to  be  tied  into  the  knot  of 
it.  The  last  chapter  of  the  tale  was  in  her,  and,  from 
the  moment  that  I  realized  this,  Rosalie  became  to  me 
an  object  of  attraction.  By  dint  of  studying  the  girl 
I  came  to  find  in  her,  as  we  do  in  every  woman  whom 
we  make  a  principal  object  of  our  attention,  that  she 
had  a  host  of  good  qualities.  She  was  clean,  and 
careful  of  herself,  and  therefore  handsome.  Some  two 
or  three  weeks  after  the  notary's  visit  I  said  to  her, 
suddenly:  'Tell  me  all  you  know  about  Madame  de 
Merret.' 

* ' '  Oh,  no ! '  she  replied,  in  a  tone  of  terror,  *  don't 
ask  me  that,  monsieur.' 

''  I  persisted  in  urging  her.  Her  pretty  face  dark- 
ened, her  bright  color  faded,  her  eyes  lost  their  inno- 
cent, liquid  light. 

** '  Well ! '  she  said,  after  a  pause,  *  if  you  will  have 
it  so,  I  will  tell  you ;  but  keep  the  secret.' 

"  *  I  '11  keep  it  with  the  faithfulness  of  a  thief,  which 
is  the  most  lojal  to  be  found  anywhere.' 

"'  If  it  is  the  same  to  you,  monsieur,  I  'd  rather  you 
kept  it  with  3^our  own.' 

"  Thereupon,  she  adjusted  her  neckerchief  and  posed 
herself  to  tell  the  tale ;  for  it  is  very  certain  that  an 
attitude  of  confidence  and  security  is  desirable  in  order 
to  make  a  narration.     The  best  tales  are  told  at  special 


La  Grande  Breteche.  245 

hours,  —  like  that  in  which  we  are  now  at  table.     No 
one  ever  told  a  story  well,  standing  or  fasting. 

*'  If  I  were  to  reproduce  faithfullj'  poor  Rosalie's 
diffuse  eloquence,  a  whole  volume  would  scarce  suflSce. 
But  as  the  event  of  which  she  now  gave  me  a  hazy 
knowledge  falls  into  place  between  the  facts  revealed 
by  the  garrulity  of  the  notary,  and  that  of  Madame 
Lepas,  as  precisely  as  the  mean  terms  of  an  arithmeti- 
cal proposition  lie  between  its  two  extremes,  all  I  have 
to  do  is  to  tell  it  to  you  in  few  words.  I  therefore 
give  a  summary  of  what  I  heard  from  Rosalie. 

*'The  chamber  which  Madame  de  Merret  occupied 
at  La  Grande  Breteche  was  on  the  ground-floor.  A 
small  closet  about  four  feet  in  depth  was  made  in  the 
wall,  and  served  as  a  wardrobe.  Three  months  before 
the  evening  when  the  facts  I  am  about  to  relate  to  you 
happened,  Madame  de  Merret  had  been  so  seriousl}' 
unwell  that  her  husband  left  her  alone  in  her  room  and 
slept  himself  in  a  chamber  on  the  first  floor.  By  one  of 
those  mere  chances  which  it  is  impossible  to  foresee,  he 
returned,  on  the  evening  in  question,  two  hours  later 
than  usual  from  the  club  where  he  went  habituall}-  to 
read  the  papers  and  talk  politics  with  the  inhabitants  of 
the  town.  His  wife  thought  him  at  home  and  in  bed 
and  asleep.  But  the  invasion  of  France  had  been  the 
subject  of  a  lively  discussion  ;  the  game  of  billiards  was 
a  heated  one  ;  he  had  lost  forty  francs,  an  enormous  sum 


246  La  Grande  Bi-eteche. 

for  Vendome,  where  every  bod}'  hoards  his  money,  and 
where  manners  and  customs  are  restrained  within  modest 
limits  worthy  of  all  praise,  —  which  ma}',  perhaps,  be 
the  source  of  a  certain  true  happiness  which  no  Parisian 
cares  anything  at  all  about. 

''  For  some  time  past  Monsieur  de  Merret  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  asking  Rosalie,  when  he  came  in,  if  his 
wife  were  in  bed.  Being  told,  invariably,  that  she  was, 
he  at  once  went  to  his  own  room  with  the  contentment 
that  comes  of  confidence  and  custom.  This  evening, 
on  returning  home,  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  go  to 
Madame  de  Merret's  room  and  tell  her  his  ill-luck, 
perhaps  to  be  consoled  for  it.  During  dinner  he  had 
noticed  that  his  wife  was  coquettishly  dressed ;  and  as 
he  came  from  the  club  the  thought  crossed  his  mind 
that  she  was  no  longer  ill,  that  her  convalescence  had 
made  her  lovelier  than  ever,  —  a  fact  he  perceived,  as 
husbands  are  wont  to  perceive  things,  too  late. 

"  Instead  of  calling  Rosalie,  who  at  that  moment  was 
in  the  kitchen  watching  a  complicated  game  of  ^  brisque,* 
at  which  the  cook  and  the  coachman  were  pla3ing, 
Monsieur  de  Merret  went  straight  to  his  wife's  room  by 
the  light  of  his  lantern,  which  he  had  placed  on  the 
first  step  of  the  stairway.  His  step,  which  was  easily 
recognized,  resounded  under  the  arches  of  the  corridor. 
Just  as  he  turned  the  handle  of  his  wife's  door  he  fan- 
cied he  heard  the  door  of  the  closet,  which  I  mentioned 


La  Grande  Bretiche,  247 

to  you,  shut ;  but  when  he  entered,  Madame  de  Merret 
was  alone,  standing  before  the  fireplace.  The  husband 
thought  to  himself  that  Rosalie  must  be  in  the  closet ; 
and  3'et  a  suspicion,  which  sounded  in  his  ears  like 
the  ringing  of  bells,  made  him  distrustful.  He  looked 
at  his  wife,  and  fancied  he  saw  something  wild  and 
troubled  in  her  eyes. 

**  *  You  are  late  in  coming  home/  she  said.  That 
voice,  usually  so  pure  and  gracious,  seemed  to  him 
slightly  changed. 

"Monsieur  de  Merret  made  no  answer,  for  at  that 
moment  Rosalie  entered  the  room.  Her  appearance 
was  a  thunderbolt  to  him.  He  walked  up  and  down 
the  room  with  his  arms  crossed,  going  from  one  win- 
dow to  another  with  a  uniform  movement. 

*' '  Have  you  heard  an}- thing  to  trouble  you?'  asked 
his  wife,  timidl}^  while  Rosalie  was  undressing  her. 
He  made  no  answer. 

*'  *  You  can  leave  the  room,'  said  Madame  de  Merret 
to  the  maid.     '  I  will  arrange  m}^  hair  myself.' 

*'  She  guessed  some  misfortune  at  the  mere  sight  of 
her  husband's  face,  and  wished  to  be  alone  with 
him. 

''  When  Rosalie  was  gone,  or  supposed  to  be  gone, 
for  she  went  no  further  than  the  corridor.  Monsieur  de 
MeiTet  came  to  his  wife  and  stood  before  her.  Then 
be  said,  coldly ; 


248  La  Grande  Breteohe. 

'*  *  Madame,  there  is  some  one  in  your  closet.* 

*'  She  looked  at  her  husband  with  a  calm  air,  and 
answered,  '  No,  monsieur.* 

'' That  '  no*  agonized  Monsieur  de  Merret,  for  he 
did  not  believe  it.  And  yet  his  wife  had  never  seemed 
purer  nor  more  saintly  than  she  did  at  that  moment. 
He  rose  and  went  towards  the  closet  to  open  the  door ; 
Madame  de  Merret  took  him  by  the  hand  and  stopped 
him ;  she  looked  at  him  with  a  sad  air  and  said,  in 
a  voice  that  was  strangely  shaken:  'If  you  find  no 
one,  remember  that  all  is  over  between  us.* 

"  The  infinite  dignity  of  his  wife's  demeanor  restored 
her  husband's  respect  for  her,  and  suddenly  inspired 
him  with  one  of  those  resolutions  which  need  some 
wider  field  to  become  immortal. 

"'No,  Josephine,*  he  said,  *I  will  not  look  there. 
In  either  case  we  should  be  separated  forever.  Listen 
to  me  :  I  know  the  purity  of  your  soul,  I  know  that  you 
lead  a  saintly  life ;  you  would  not  commit  a  mortal  sin 
to  save  yourself  from  death.* 

"  At  these  words,  Madame  de  Merret  looked  at  her 
husband  with  a  haggard  eye. 

"  '  Here  is  your  crucifix,*  he  went  on.  '  Swear  to  me 
before  God  that  there  is  no  one  in  that  closet  and  I  will 
believe  you  ;  I  will  not  open  that  door.* 

"Madame  de  Merret  took  the  crucifix  and  said  'I 
swear  it.* 


La  Grande  Breteche,  249 

*' '  Louder  I '  said  her  husband  ;  '  repeat  after  me,  —  I 
swear  before  God  that  there  is  no  person  in  that 
closet.' 

**  She  repeated  the  words  composedly. 

''^That  is  well,'  said  Monsieur  de  Merret,  eoldl}'. 
After  a  moment's  silence  he  added,  examining  the 
ebony  crucifix  inlaid  with  silver,  'That  is  a  beautiful 
thing ;  I  did  not  know  you  possessed  it ;  it  is  very 
artistically  wrought.' 

"  *  I  found  it  at  Duvivier's,*  she  replied  ;  *  he  bought 
it  of  a  Spanish  monk  when  those  prisoners -of- war 
passed  through  Venddme  last  year.* 

'''Ah!'  said  Monsieur  de  Merret,  replacing  the 
crucifix  on  the  wall.  He  rang  the  bell.  Rosalie  was 
not  long  in  answering  it.  Monsieur  de  Merret  went 
quickly  up  to  her,  took  her  into  the  recess  of  a  window 
on  the  garden  side,  and  said  to  her  in  a  low  voice :  — 

"  '  I  am  told  that  Gorenflot  wants  to  marry  you,  and 
that  poverty  alone  prevents  it,  for  you  have  told  him 
3'ou  will  not  be  his  wife  until  he  is  a  master-mason.  Is 
that  so?' 

"  '  Yes,  monsieur.' 

"  '  Well,  go  and  find  him  ;  tell  him  to  come  here  at 
once  and  bring  his  trowel  and  other  tools.  Take  care 
not  to  wake  any  one  at  his  house  but  himself;  he  will 
soon  have  enough  money  to  satisfy  you.  No  talking  to 
any  one  when  you  leave  this  room,  mind,  or — ' 


250  La   Grande  Breteche. 

*'  He  frowned.  Rosalie  left  the  room.  He  called  her 
back ;  *  Here,  take  my  pass-kej','  he  said. 

''  Monsieur  de  Merret,  who  had  kept  his  wife  in  view 
while  giving  these  orders,  now  sat  down  beside  her 
before  the  fire  and  began  to  tell  her  of  his  game  of 
bilhards,  and  the  political  discussions  at  the  club. 
When  Rosalie  returned  she  found  Monsieur  and  Ma- 
dame de  Merret  talking  amicabl3\ 

''  The  master  had  latelj-  had  the  ceilings  of  all  the 
reception  rooms  on  the  lower  floor  restored.  Plaster 
is  very  scarce  at  Vendome,  and  the  carriage  of  it 
makes  it  expensive.  Monsieur  de  Merret  had  there- 
fore ordered  an  ample  quantity  for  his  own  wants, 
knowing  that  he  could  readily  finds  buyers  for  what 
was  left.  This  circumstance  inspired  the  idea  that 
now  possessed  him. 

"  '  Monsieur,  Gorenflot  has  come,'  said  Rosalie. 

"  '  Bring  him  in,'  said  her  master. 

"  Madame  de  Merret  turned  slightly  pale  when  she 
saw  the  mason. 

*"  Gorenflot,'  said  her  husband,  *  fetch  some  bricks 
from  the  coach-house,  —  enough  to  wall  up  that  door ; 
use  the  plaster  that  was  left  over,  to  cover  the  wall.' 

*'Then  he  called  Rosalie  and  the  mason  to  the  end 
of  the  room,  and,  speaking  in  a  low  voice,  added, 
*  Listen  to  me,  Gorenflot ;  after  you  have  done  this  work 
you  will  sleep  in  the  house ;  and  to-morrow  morning 


La  Grande  Breteche,  251 

I  will  give  you  a  passport  into  a  foreign  countrj',  and 
six  thousand  francs  for  the  journey.  Go  through  Paris 
wliere  I  will  meet  you.  There,  I  will  secure  to  you 
legally  another  six  thousand  francs,  to  be  paid  to  you  at 
the  end  of  ten  years  if  you  still  remain  out  of  France. 
For  this  sum,  I  demand  absolute  silence  on  what  you 
see  and  do  this  night.  As  for  you,  Rosalie,  I  give  you 
a  dowry  of  ten  thousand  francs,  on  condition  that 
you  marry  Gorenflot,  and  keep  silence,  if  not  — ' 

"'Rosalie,*  said  Madame  de  Merret,  'come  and 
brush  my  hair.* 

"  The  husband  walked  up  and  down  the  room,  watch- 
ing the  door,  the  mason,  and  his  wife,  but  without 
allowing  the  least  distrust  or  misgiving  to  appear  in 
his  manner.  Gorenflot's  work  made  some  noise ;  un- 
der cover  of  it  Madame  de  Merret  said  hastily  to 
Rosalie,  while  her  husband  was  at  the  farther  end  of 
the  room.  '  A  thousand  francs  annuity  if  you  tell 
Gorenflot  to  leave  a  crevice  at  the  bottom  ;  *  then  aloud 
she  added,  composedly,  '  Go  and  help  the  mason.' 

*'  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Merret  remained  silent 
during  the  whole  time  it  took  Gorenflot  to  wall  up  the 
door.  The  silence  was  intentional  on  the  part  of  the 
husband  to  deprive  his  wife  of  all  chance  of  saying 
words  with  a  double  meaning  which  might  be  heard 
within  the  closet;  with  Madame  de  Merret  it  was 
either  prudence  or  pride. 


252  La  Grande  Breteche. 

*'  When  the  wall  was  more  than  half  up,  the  mason's 
tool  broke  one  of  the  panes  of  glass  in  the  closet  door ; 
Monsieur  de  Merret*s  back  was  at  that  moment  turned 
awa3\  The  action  proved  to  Madame  de  Merret  that 
Rosalie  had  spoken  to  the  mason.  In  that  one  instant 
she  saw  the  dark  face  of  a  man  with  black  hair  and 
fiery  eyes.  Before  her  husband  turned  the  poor  creat- 
ure had  time  to  make  a  sign  with  her  head  which 
meant  'Hope.' 

''By  four  o'clock,  just  at  dawn,  for  it  was  in  the 
month  of  September,  the  work  was  done.  Monsieur  de 
Merret  remained  that  night  in  his  wife's  room.  The 
next  morning,  on  rising,  he  said,  carelessly:  'Ah! 
I  forgot,  I  must  go  to  the  mayor's  office  about  that 
passport.* 

*'He  put  on  his  hat,  made  three  steps  to  the 
door,  then  checked  himself,  turned  back,  and  took  the 
crucifix. 

"  His  wife  trembled  with  joy ;  *  He  will  go  to  Duvi- 
vier's,'  she  thought. 

"  The  moment  her  husband  had  left  the  house  she 
rang  for  Rosalie.  '  The  pick-axe ! '  she  cried,  '  the 
pick-axe!  I  watched  how  Gorenflot  did  it;  we  shall 
have  time  to  make  a  hole  and  close  it  again.' 

''In  an  instant  Rosalie  had  brought  a  sort  of  cleaver, 
and  her  mistress,  with  a  fury  no  words  can  describe, 
began  to  demolish  the  wall.     She  had  knocked  away 


La  Grande  BretecTie.  253 

a  few  bricks,  and  was  drawing  back  to  strike  a  still 
more  vigorous  blow  with  all  her  strength,  when  she 
saw  her  husband  behind  her.    She  fainted. 

"  *Put  madame  on  her  bed,'  said  her  husband,  coldl}'. 

"Foreseeing  what  would  happen,  he  had  laid  this 
trap  for  his  wife ;  he  had  written  to  the  ma3'or,  and 
sent  for  Duvivier.  The  jeweller  arrived  just  as  the 
room  had  been  again  put  in  order. 

*' '  Duvivier,'  said  Monsieur  de  Merret,  '  I  think  5'ou 
bought  some  crucifixes  of  those  Spaniards  who  were 
here  last  j-ear?' 

"  *  No,  monsieur,  I  did  not.* 

*''Very  good;  thank  you,'  he  said,  with  a  tigerish 
glance  at  his  wife.  *  Jean,'  he  added  to  the  footman, 
*  serve  m}"  meals  in  Madame  de  Merret's  bedroom  ;  she 
is  very  ill,  and  I  shall  not  leave  her  till  she  recovers.* 

*'For  twenty  da3"s  that  man  remained  beside  his 
wife.  During  the  first  hours,  when  sounds  were  heard 
behind  the  walled  door,  and  Josephine  tried  to  implore 
merc}'^  for  the  dying  stranger,  he  answered,  without 
allowing  her  to  utter  a  word :  — 

"  *  You  swore  upon  the  cross  that  no  one  was  there.*  ** 

As  the  tale  ended  the  women  rose  from  table,  and 
the  spell  under  which  Bianchon  had  held  them  was 
broken.  Nevertheless,  several  of  them  were  conscious 
of  a  cold  chill  as  they  recalled  the  last  words. 


THE    PURSE. 


To    Sofka: 

Have  you  ever  remarked,  Mademoiselle,  that  when  the 
painters  and  sculptors  of  the  middle  ages  placed  two  figures 
in  adoration  beside  some  glorious  saint  they  have  always 
given  them  a  filial  resemblance  ? 

When  you  see  your  name  among  those  dear  to  me,  under 
whose  protection  I  place  my  books,  remember  this  likeness 
and  you  will  find  here  not  so  much  a  homage  as  an  expression 
of  the  fraternal  affection  felt  for  you  by 

Your  servant,  Db  Balzac. 

For  souls  easily  moved  to  joyous  feelings  there  comes 
a  delightful  moment  when  night  is  not  yet  and  day  is 
no  more  ;  the  twilight  casts  its  soft  tones  or  its  fantastic 
reflections  over  everything,  and  invites  to  a  revery 
which  blends  vaguely  with  the  play  of  light  and  shadow. 
The  silence  that  nearly  always  reigns  at  such  a  moment 
renders  it  particularly  dear  to  artists,  who  then  gather 
up  their  thoughts,  stand  back  a  little  from  their  crea- 
tions, at  which  they  can  see  to  work  no  longer,  and 


256  The  Purse, 

judge  them  in  the  intoxication  of  a  subject  the  esoteric 
meaning  of  which  then  blazes  forth  to  the  inner  ej'es  of 
genius.  He  who  has  never  stood  pensive  beside  a  friend 
at  that  dreamj^,  poetic  moment  will  have  difficulty  in 
comprehending  its  unspeakable  benefits.  Thanks  to 
the  half-light,  the  chiaroscuro,  all  the  material  de- 
ceptions employed  by  art  to  simulate  truth  disappear. 
If  a  picture  is  the  thing  concerned,  the  persons  it  repre- 
sents seem  to  speak  and  move ;  the  shadow  is  reallj^ 
shadow,  the  light  is  da^',  the  flesh  is  living,  the  eyes 
turn,  the  blood  flows  in  the  veins,  and  the  silks  shimmer. 
At  that  hour  illusion  reigns  unchallenged ;  perhaps  it 
onl3^  rises  at  night-fall !  Indeed,  illusion  is  to  thought 
a  sort  of  night  which  we  decorate  with  dreams.  Then 
it  is  that  she  spreads  her  wings  and  bears  the  soul  to 
the  world  of  fantasy,  —  a  world  teeming  with  voluptuous 
caprices,  where  the  artist  forgets  the  actual  world,  for- 
gets yesterda}',  to-daj^  to-morrow,  all,  even  his  dis- 
tresses, the  happy  as  well  as  the  bitter  ones. 

At  that  magic  hour  a  young  painter,  a  man  of  talent, 
who  saw  nought  in  art  but  art  itself,  was  perched  on  a 
double  ladder  which  he  used  for  the  purpose  of  painting 
a  ver}^  large  picture,  now  nearlj"  finished.  There,  criti- 
cising himself  and  admiring  himself  in  perfect  good 
faith,  he  was  lost  in  one  of  those  meditations  which  rav- 
ish the  soul,  enlarge  it,  caress  it,  and  console  it.  His 
r«very  no  doubt  lasted  long.     Night  came.    Whether  he 


The  Purse.  257 

tried  to  come  down  his  ladder,  or  whether,  thinking  he 
was  on  the  ground,  he  made  some  imprudent  movement, 
he  was  unable  to  remember,  but  at  any  rate  he  fell,  his 
head  struck  a  stool,  he  lost  consciousness  and  lay  for  a 
time,  but  how  long  he  did  not  know,  without  moving. 

A  soft  voice  drew  him  from  the  sort  of  stupor  in  which 
he  was  plunged.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  a  bright 
light  made  him  close  them  again  ;  but  through  the  veil 
that  wrapped  his  senses  he  heard  the  murmur  of 
women's  voices,  and  felt  two  young  and  timid  hands 
about  his  head.  He  soon  recovered  consciousness  and 
perceived,  by  the  light  of  one  of  those  old-fashioned 
lamps  called  *'  double  air-currents,"  the  head  of  the 
loveliest  young  girl  he  had  ever  seen,  —  one  of  those 
heads  which  are,  often  thought  artistic  fancies,  but  which 
for  him  suddenly  realized  the  noble  ideal  which  each 
artist  creates  for  himself,  and  from  which  his  genius 
proceeds.  The  face  of  the  unknown  maiden  belonged, 
if  we  may  say  so,  to  the  school  of  Prudhon,  and  it  also 
possessed  the  poetic  charm  which  Girodet  has  given  to 
his  imaginary  visions.  The  delightful  coolness  of  the 
temples,  the  evenness  of  the  eyebrows,  the  puritj'  of 
the  outlines,  the  virginity  strongly  imprinted  on  that 
countenance,  made  the  young  girl  a  perfected  being. 

Her  clothes,  though  simple  and  neat,  bespoke  neither 
wealth  nor  poverty.  When  the  painter  regained  pos- 
session of  himself,  he  expressed  his  admiration  in  a 

17 


258  The  Purse, 

look  of  surprise  as  he  stammered  his  thanks.  He  felt 
his  forehead  pressed  by  a  handkerchief,  and  he  recog- 
nized, in  spite  of  the  pecuhar  odor  of  an  atelier,  the 
strong  fumes  of  hartshorn,  used,  no  doubt,  to  bring 
him  to  himself.  Next  he  noticed  an  old  lady,  like  a 
countess  of  the  old  regime,  who  held  the  lamp  and  was 
advising  her  companion. 

"  Monsieur,"  replied  the  young  girl  to  one  of  the 
painter's  questions  asked  during  the  moment  when  he 
was  still  half-unconscious,  "  m}^  mother  and  I  heard  the 
noise  of  yoxxv  fall  on  the  floor  and  we  thought  we  also 
heard  a  groan.  The  silence  which  succeeded  your  fall 
alarmed  us  and  we  hastened  to  come  up  to  you. 
Finding  the  key  in  the  door  we  fortunately  ventured 
to  come  in.  We  found  you  I3  ing  on  the  floor  uncon- 
scious. My  mother  obtained  what  was  necessary  to 
bring  you  to  and  to  stanch  the  blood.  You  are  hurt 
in  the  forehead  ;  there,  do  you  feel  it  ?  " 

"  Yes.  now  I  do,"  he  said. 

''It  is  a  mere  nothing,"  said  the  old  mother,  "for- 
tunately your  fall  was  broken  by  that  lay-figure." 

''I  feel  much  better,"  said  the  painter;  "all  I 
want  is  a  carriage  to  take  me  home.  The  porter  can 
fetch  it." 

He  tried  to  reiterate  his  thanks  to  the  two  ladies,  but 
at  every  sentence  the  mother  interrupted  him,  saying : 
"To-morrow,    monsieur,    put    on    blisters    or    apply 


The  Purse.  259 

leeches ;  drink  a  few  cups  of  some  restorative ;  take 
care  of  yourself,  —  falls  are  dangerous." 

The  young  girl  glanced  shylj'  at  the  painter,  and 
around  the  studio.  Her  look  and  demeanor  were  those 
of  perfect  propriety,  and  her  eyes  seemed  to  express, 
with  a  spontaneity  that  was  full  of  grace,  the  Interest 
that  women  take  in  whatever  troubles  men.  These 
unknown  ladies  appeared  to  ignore  the  works  of  the 
painter  in  presence  of  the  suffering  man.  When  he 
had  reassured  them  as  to  his  condition  they  left  the 
room,  after  examining  him  with  a  solicitude  that  was 
devoid  of  either  exaggeration  or  familiarity,  and  with- 
out asking  any  indiscreet  questions,  or  seeking  to  in- 
spire him  with  a  wish  to  know  them.  Their  conduct 
was  marked  with  every  sign  of  delicacy  and  good  taste. 
At  first  their  noble  and  simple  manners  produced  but 
little  effect  upon  the  painter,  but  later,  when  he  recalled 
the  circumstances,  he  was  greatly  struck  by  them. 

Reaching  the  floor  below  that  on  which  the  studio 
was  situated,  the  old  lady  exclaimed,  gently,  "Ade- 
laide, you  left  the  door  open ! " 

"It  was  to  succor  me,"  replied  the  painter,  with  a 
smile  of  gratitude. 

"  Mamma,  you  came  down  just  now,"  said  the  young 
girl,  blushing. 

"  Shall  we  light  you  down?  "  said  the  mother  to  the 
painter ;  "the  stairway  is  dark." 


260  The  Purse. 

"  Ohj  thank  you,  madame,  but  I  feel  much  better.** 

''Hold  by  the  baluster." 

The  two  women  stood  on  the  landing  to  light  the 
young  man,  listening  to  the  sound  of  his  steps. 

To  explain  all  that  made  this  scene  piquant  and  un- 
expected to  the  painter,  we  must  add  that  he  had  onl3' 
lately  removed  his  studio  to  the  attic  of  this  house, 
which  stood  at  the  darkest  and  muddiest  part  of  the 
rue  de  Suresnes,  nearly  opposite  to  the  church  of  the 
Madeleine,  a  few  steps  from  his  apartments,  which 
were  in  the  rue  des  Champs  ^lysees.  The  celebrity 
his  talent  had  won  for  him  made  him  dear  to  France, 
and  he  was  just  beginning  to  no  longer  feel  the  troubles 
of  want,  and  to  enjoy,  as  he  said,  his  last  miseries. 
Instead  of  going  to  his  work  in  a  studio  bej'ond  the 
barrier,  the  modest  price  of  which  had  hitherto  been  in 
keeping  with  the  modesty  of  his  earnings,  he  now  satis- 
fied a  desire,  of  dailj^  growth,  to  avoid  the  long  walk 
and  the  loss  of  time  which  had  now  become  a  thing  of 
the  utmost  value. 

No  one  in  the  world  could  have  inspired  deeper  in- 
terest that  Hippolyte  Schinner,  if  he  had  only  con- 
sented to  be  known  ;  but  he  was  not  one  of  those  who 
readily  confide  the  secrets  of  their  heart.  He  was  the 
idol  of  a  poor  mother  who  had  brought  him  up  at  a 
cost  of  stern  privations.  Mademoiselle  Schinner,  the 
daughter  of   an  Alsatian   farmer,   was   not   married. 


The  Purse,  261 

Her  tender  soul  had  once  been  cruelly  wounded  by  a 
wealthy  man  who  boasted  of  little  delicacy  in  love. 
The  fatal  day  when,  in  the  glow  of  j^outh  and  beauty, 
in  the  glory  of  her  life,  she  endured  at  the  cost  of  all 
her  beautiful  illusions,  and  of  her  heart  itself,  the  dis- 
enchantment which  comes  to  us  so  slowly  and  3'et  so 
fast,  —  for  we  will  not  believe  in  evil  until  too  late,  and 
then  it  seems  to  come  too  rapidly, — that  day  was  to  her 
a  whole  century  of  reflection,  and  it  was  also  a  day  of 
religious  thoughts  and  resignation.  She  refused  the 
alms  of  the  man  who  had  betrayed  her ;  she  renounced 
the  world,  and  made  an  honor  of  her  fault.  She  gave 
herself  up  to  maternal  love,  enjoying  in  exchange  for 
the  social  enjoyments  to  which  she  had  bid  farewell, 
its  fullest  delights.  She  lived  by  her  labor,  and  found 
her  wealth  in  her  son;  and  the  day  came,  the  hour 
came  which  repaid  her  for  the  long,  slow  sacrifices  of 
her  indigence.  At  the  last  Exhibition  her  son  had  re- 
ceived the  cross  of  the  Legion  of  honor.  The  news- 
papers, unanimous  in  favor  of  a  hithei-to  ignored  talent, 
rang  with  praises  that  were  now  sincere.  Artists  them- 
selves recognized  Schinner  as  a  master,  and  the  dealers 
were  ready  to  cover  his  canvases  with  gold. 

At  twenty-five  years  of  age  Hippol3"te  Schinner,  to 
whom  his  mother  had  transmitted  her  woman's  soul, 
fully  recognized  his  position  in  the  world.  Wishing  to 
give  his  mother  the  pleasures  that  society  had  so  long 


262  The  Purse, 

•withdrawn  from  her,  he  lived  for  her  on!}-,  —  hoping 
to  see  her  some  daj',  through  the  power  of  his  fame 
and  fortune,  happj',  rich,  respected,  and  surrounded 
by  celebrated  men. 

Schinner  had  therefore  chosen  his  friends  among  the 
most  honorable  and  distinguished  men  of  his  own  age. 
Hard  to  satisfy  in  his  choice,  he  wished  to  gain  a  posi- 
tion even  higher  than  that  his  talents  gave  him.  En- 
forcing him  to  live  in  solitude  (that  mother  of  great 
thoughts)  the  toil  to  which  he  had  vowed  himself  from 
his  youth  up  had  kept  him  true  to  the  noble  beliefs 
"which  adorn  the  earlier  years  of  life.  His  adolescent 
soul  had  lost  none  of  the  many  forms  of  chastity  which 
make  a  3"oung  man  a  being  apart,  a  being  whose  heart 
abounds  in  felicity,  in  poes}^,  in  virgin  hopes,  —  feeble 
to  the  eyes  of  worn-out  men,  but  deep  because  they 
are  simple.  He  was  endowed  by  nature  with  the 
gentle,  courteous  manners,  which  are  those  of  the  heart, 
and  which  charm  even  those  who  are  not  able  to 
comprehend  them.  He  was  well  made.  His  voice, 
which  echoed  his  soul,  roused  noble  sentiments  in  the 
souls  of  others,  and  bore  testimony  by*a  certain  candor 
in  its  tones  to  his  innate  modesty.  Those  who  saw 
him  felt  drawn  to  him  b}^  one  of  those  moral  attrac- 
tions which,  happily,  scientific  men  cannot  anah'ze ;  if 
they  could  they  would  find  some  phenomena  of  gal- 
vanism, or  the  flow  of  heaven  knows  what  fluid,   and 


The  Fume.  268 

formulate  our  feelings  in  proportions  of  oxygen  and 
electricity. 

These  details  may  perhaps  enlighten  persons  who  are 
bold  by  nature,  and  also  men  with  good  cravats,  as  to 
why  Hippolyte  Schinner,  in  the  absence  of  the  porter, 
whom  he  had  sent  to  the  rue  de  la  Madeleine  for  a  hack- 
ney-coach, did  not  ask  the  porter's  wife  any  question 
as  to  the  two  ladies  whose  kindness  of  heart  accident 
had  revealed  to  him.  But  though  he  answered  merely 
yes  or  no  to  the  questions,  natural  enough  under  the 
circumstances,  which  the  woman  put  to  him  on  his 
accident,  and  on  the  assistance  rendered  to  him  by  the 
occupants  of  the  fourth  floor,  he  could  not  prevent  her 
from  obeying  the  instincts  of  her  race.  She  spoke  of 
the  two  ladies  in  the  interests  of  her  own  policy  and 
according  to  the  subterranean  judgment  of  a  porter's 
lodge. 

"Ah!"  she  said,  *' that  must  have  been  Mademoi- 
selle Leseigneur  and  her  mother ;  they  have  lived  here 
the  last  four  years.  We  can't  make  out  what  those 
ladies  do.  In  the  morning  (but  only  till  twelve  o'clock) 
an  old  charwoman,  nearly  deaf,  and  who  does  n't  talk 
any  more  than  a  stone  wall,  comes  to  help  them ;  in 
the  evening  two  or  three  old  gentlemen,  decorated,  like 
you,  monsieur,  —  one  of  them  keeps  a  carriage  and  ser- 
vants, and  people  do  say  he  has  sixty  thousand  francs 
a  year,  —  well,  they  spend  the  evening  here  and  often 


264  The  Purse. 

stay  very  late.  The  ladies  are  very  quiet  tenants,  like 
you,  monsieur ;  and  economical !  — they  live  on  nothing ; 
as  soon  as  they  get  a  letter  they  pay  their  rent.  It  is 
queer,  monsieur,  but  the  mother  has  n't  the  same  name 
as  the  daughter.  Ah  !  but  when  they  go  to  walk  in  the 
Tuileries  mademoiselle  is  dazzling,  and  often  young 
gentlemen  follow  her  home,  but  she  has  the  door  shut 
in  their  faces,  —  and  she  is  right ;  for  the  proprietor 
would  never  allow  —  " 

The  coach  having  arrived,  Hippolyte  heard  no  more 
and  went  home.  His  mother,  to  whom  he  related  his 
adventure,  dressed  his  wound  and  would  not  let  him 
go  back  to  the  studio  the  next  day.  Consultation  was 
had,  divers  prescriptions  were  ordered,  and  Hippolyte 
was  kept  at  home  three  daj^s.  During  this  seclusion, 
his  unoccupied  imagination  recalled  to  him  in  vivid 
fragments  the  details  of  the  scene  that  followed  his 
swoon.  The  profile  of  the  young  girl  was  deeply  cut 
upon  the  shadowy  background  of  his  inner  sight; 
again  he  saw  the  faded  face  of  the  mother  and  felt 
Adelaide's  soft  hands  ;  he  remembered  a  gesture  he  had 
scarcely  noticed  at  the  time,  but  now  its  exquisite  grace 
was  thrown  into  relief  by  memory  ;  then  an  attitude  or 
the  tones  of  a  melodious  voice,  made  more  melodious 
by  recollection,  suddenly  reappeared,  like  things  that 
are  thrown  to  the  bottom  of  a  river  and  return  to  the 
surface. 


The  Purse,  265 

So  the  first  day  on  which  he  was  able  to  go  to  work 
he  went  early  to  his  studio  ;  but  the  visit  which  he  had, 
incontestably,  the  right  to  make  to  his  neighbors  was 
the  real  reason  of  his  haste  ;  his  pictures  were  forgotten. 
The  moment  a  passion  bursts  its  swaddling-clothes  it 
finds  inexplicable  pleasures  known  only  to  those  who 
love.  Thus  there  are  persons  who  will  know  why  the 
painter  slowly  mounted  the  stairs  of  the  fourth  story ; 
they  will  be  in  the  secret  of  those  rapid  pulsations  of  his 
heart  as  he  came  in  sight  of  the  brown  door  of  the  hum- 
ble apartments  occupied  by  Mademoiselle  Leseigneur. 
This  young  girl,  who  did  not  bear  the  same  name  as  her 
mother,  had  awakened  a  thousand  sympathies  in  the 
young  painter ;  he  longed  to  find  in  her  certain  similari- 
ties of  position  to  his  own,  and  he  invested  her  with  the 
misfortunes  of  his  own  origin.  While  he  worked,  Hip- 
polyte  gave  himself,  complacently,  to  thoughts  of  love, 
and  he  made  as  much  noise  as  he  could,  to  in(^uce  the 
ladies  to  think  of  him  as  much  as  he  thought  of  them. 
He  stayed  very  late  at  the  studio,  and  dined  there.  About 
seven  o'clock  he  went  down  to  call  on  his  neighbors. 

No  painter  of  manners  and  customs  has  dared  to 
initiate  us  —  restrained,  perhaps,  b}^  a  sense  of  pro- 
priety —  into  the  trul}'  singular  interiors  of  certain 
Parisian  homes,  into  the  secret  of  those  dwellings 
whence  issue  such  fresh,  such  elegant  toilets,  women  so 
brilliant  on  the  outside  who  nevertheless  betray  signs 


266  The  Purse. 

of  an  equivocal  fortune.  If  the  painting  of  such  a  home 
is  here  too  frankly  drawn,  if  you  find  it  tedious,  do  not 
blame  the  description,  which  forms,  as  it  were,  an  integ- 
ral part  of  the  history ;  for  the  aspect  of  the  apartments 
occupied  by  his  neighbors  had  a  great  influence  upon 
the  hopes  and  feelings  of  Hippolyte  Schinner. 

The  house  belonged  to  one  of  those  proprietors  in 
whom  there  is  a  pre-existent  horror  of  repairs  or  im- 
provements, —  one  of  the  men  who  consider  their  posi- 
tion as  house-owners  in  Paris  as  their  business  in  life. 
In  the  grand  chain  of  moral  species  such  men  hold  the 
middle  place  between  usurers  and  misers.  Optimists 
from  self-interest,  they  are  all  faithful  to  the  statu  quo 
of  Austria.  If  you  mention  moving  a  cupboard  or  a 
door,  or  making  the  most  necessary  of  ventilators,  their 
eyes  glitter,  their  bile  rises,  they  rear  like  a  frightened 
horse.  When  the  wind  has  knocked  over  a  chimney- 
pot they  fall  ill  of  it,  and  deprive  themselves  and  their 
families  of  an  evening  at  the  Gymnase  or  the  Porte- 
Saint-Martin  to  pay  damages.  Hippolyte,  who,  apropos 
of  certain  embellishments  he  wished  made  to  his  studio, 
had  enjoyed,  gratis,  the  playing  of  a  comic  scene  b}- 
Monsieur  Molineux,  the  proprietor,  was  not  at  all  sur- 
prised by  the  blackened,  soiled  colors,  the  oily  tints, 
the  spots,  and  other  disagreeable  accessories  which 
adorned  the  woodwork.  These  stigmata  of  poverty 
are  never  without  a  certain  poetry  to  an  artist. 


The  Purse,  267 

Mademoiselle  Leseigneur  herself  opened  the  door. 
Recognizing  the  young  painter  she  bowed  to  him ; 
then,  at  the  same  moment,  with  Parisian  dexterity, 
and  that  presence  of  mind  which  pride  affords,  she 
turned  and  shut  the  door  of  a  glazed  partition  through 
which  Hippolyte  might  have  seen  linen  hung  to  dry 
on  lines  above  a  cheap  stove,  an  old  flock  bed,  coal, 
charcoal,  flatirons,  a  water-filter,  china  and  glass,  and 
all  utensils  necessary  to  a  small  household.  Muslin 
curtains,  that  were  suflScientlj^  clean,  carefully  con- 
cealed this  "  capharnaiim,"  —  a  word  then  familiarly 
applied  to  such  domestic  laboratories,  ill-lighted  by 
narrow  windows  opening  on  a  court. 

With  the  rapid  glance  of  an  artist  Hippolyte  had 
seen  the  furnishing,  the  character,  and  the  condition 
of  this  first  apartment,  which  was  in  fact  one  room 
cut  in  two.  The  respectable  half,  which  answered  the 
double  purpose  of  ante-chamber  and  dining-room,  was 
hung  with  an  old  yellow  paper,  and  a  velvet  border, 
manufactured  no  doubt  by  R^veillon,  the  holes  and 
the  spots  of  which  had  been  carefully  concealed  un- 
der wafers.  Engravings  representing  the  battles  of 
Alexander,  by  Lebrun,  in  tarnished  frames,  decorated 
the  walls  at  equal  distances.  In  the  centre  of  the 
room  was  a  massive  mahogany  table,  old-fashioned  in 
shape,  and  a  good  deal  rubbed  at  the  corners.  A 
small  stove,  with  a  straight  pipe  and  no  elbow,  hardly 


268  The  Furse. 

seen,  stood  before  the  chimney,  the  fireplace  in  which 
was  turned  into  a  closet.  By  way  of  an  odd  contrast, 
the  chairs,  which  were  of  carved  mahogan3^,  showed 
the  relics  of  past  splendor,  but  the  red  leather  of  the 
seats,  the  gilt  nails,  and  the  gimps  showed  as  many 
wounds  as  an  old  sergeant  of  the  Imperial  Guard. 
This  room  served  as  a  museum  for  a  variety  of  things 
that  are  only  found  in  certain  amphibious  households, 
unnameable  articles,  which  belong  both  to  luxury  and 
poverty.  Among  them  Hippolyte  noticed  a  spj^-glass, 
handsomely  ornamented,  which  hung  above  the  little 
greenish  mirror  on  the  mantel-shelf.  To  complete  the 
oddity  of  this  furniture,  a  shabby  sideboard  stood  be- 
tween the  chimney  and  the  partition,  made  of  common 
pine  painted  in  mahogan}^,  which  of  all  woods  is  least 
successfully  imitated.  But  the  red  and  slippery  floor, 
the  shabby  bits  of  carpet  before  the  chairs,  and  all  the 
furniture,  shone  with  the  careful  rubbing  which  gives 
its  own  lustre  to  old  things,  and  brings  out  all  the 
clearer  their  dilapidations,  their  age,  and  their  long 
service. 

The  room  gave  out  an  indefinable  odor  resulting  from 
the  exhalations  of  the  capharnaiim  mingled  with  the 
atmosphere  of  the  dining-room  and  that  of  the  stair- 
case, though  the  window  was  open  and  the  breeze  from 
the  street  stirred  the  cambric  curtains,  which  were 
carefully  arranged  to  hide   the   window-frame  where 


The  Purse.  269 

preceding  tenants  had  marked  their  presence  by  various 
cai-vings,  —  a  sort  of  domestic  frescoing. 

Adelaide  quickly  opened  the  door  of  the  next  room, 
into  which  she  ushered  the  painter  with  evident  pleas- 
ure. Hippolyte,  who  had  seen  the  same  signs  of  pov- 
erty in  his  mother's  home,  noticed  them  now  with  that 
singular  keenness  of  impression  which  characterizes  the 
first  acquisitions  of  our  memory ;  and  he  was  able  to  un- 
derstand, better  perhaps  than  others  could  have  done, 
the  details  of  such  an  existence.  Recognizing  the  things 
of  his  childhood,  the  honest  young  fellow  felt  neither 
contempt  for  the  hidden  poverty  before  him,  nor  pride 
in  the  luxury  he  had  lately  achieved  for  his  mother. 

"Well,  monsieur,  I  hope  yoxx  are  none  the  worse 
for  your  fall?"  said  the  mother,  rising  from  an  old- 
fashioned  sofa  at  the  corner  of  the  fireplace,  and 
offering  him  a  chair. 

**No,  madame.  I  have  come  to  thank  you  for  the 
good  care  you  gave  me ;  and  especially  mademoiselle, 
who  heard  me  fall." 

While  making  this  speech,  full  of  the  adorable 
stupidity  which  the  first  agitations  of  a  true  love 
produce  in  the  soul,  Hippolyte  looked  at  the  young 
girl.  Adelaide  lighted  the  lamp  with  the  double  cur- 
rent of  air,  no  doubt  for  the  purpose  of  suppressing  a 
tallow  candle  placed  in  a  large  pewter  candlestick  that 
was  covered  with  drippings  from  an  unusual  flow  of 


270  The  Purse. 

tallow.  She  bowed  slightly,  placed  the  candlestick  on 
the  chimney-piece,  and  sat  down  near  her  mother,  a 
little  behind  the  painter,  so  as  to  look  at  him  at  her 
ease,  while  seemingly  engaged  in  making  the  lamp 
burn ;  for  the  feeble  flame  of  the  double  current,  affected 
by  the  dampness  of  the  tarnished  chimney,  sputtered 
and  struggled  with  an  ill-cut,  black  wick.  Observing 
the  mirror  above  the  mantel-shelf,  Hippolyte  promptly 
looked  into  it  to  see  and  admire  Adelaide.  The  little 
scheme  of  the  young  girl  served  therefore  only  to 
embarrass  them  both. 

While  talking  with  Madame  Leseigneur,  for  Hippolyte 
at  first  gave  her  that  name,  he  examined  the  salon,  but 
discreetly  and  with  propriety.  The  Egyptian  figures  of 
the  andirons  (made  of  iron)  could  scarcely  be  seen  on 
the  hearth  full  of  ashes,  where  two  small  sticks  of  wood 
were  trying  to  meet  each  other  in  front  of  an  Imitation 
back-log  of  earthenware.  An  old  Aubusson  carpet, 
well-mended  and  much  faded  and  worn,  hardly  covered 
the  tiled  floor,  which  felt  cold  to  the  feet.  The  walls 
were  hung  with  a  reddish  paper  in  the  style  of  a  bro- 
cade with  buff  designs.  In  the  centre  of  the  partition 
opposite  to  the  windows  the  painter  observed  an  inden- 
tation and  cracks  in  the  paper,  made  by  the  two  doors 
of  a  folding-bed,  where  Madame  Leseigneur  doubtless 
slept,  and  which  was  only  partly  concealed  by  a  sofa 
placed  in  front  of  it.     Opposite  to  the  chimney,  and 


The  Parse.  271 

above  a  chest  of  drawers  in  mahogany,  the  style  of 
which  was  handsome  and  in  good  taste,  was  the  portrait 
of  an  officer  of  high  rank,  which  the  poor  light  hardly 
enabled  the  painter  to  make  out;  but,  from  what  he 
could  see  of  it  the  thought  occurred  to  him  that  the 
frightful  daub  must  have  been  painted  in  China.  The 
red  silk  curtains  to  the  windows  were  faded,  like  the 
coverings  of  the  furniture  in  this  salon  with  two  pur- 
poses. On  the  marble  top  of  the  chest  of  drawers  was 
a  valuable  tray  of  malachite,  holding  a  dozen  coffee- 
cups,  exquisitely  painted,  and  made  no  doubt  at  Sevres. 
On  the  mantel-shelf  was  the  inevitable  Empire  clock,  a 
warrior  driving  the  four  horses  of  a  chariot,  the  twelve 
spokes  of  the  wheel  each  telling  an  hour.  The  wax 
tapers  in  the  candelabra  were  yellow  with  smoke,  and 
at  each  end  of  the  shelf  was  a  china  vase  filled  with  arti- 
ficial flowers  covered  with  dust  and  mixed  with  mosses. 
Hippolyte  noticed  a  card-table  in  the  centre  of  the 
room,  laid  out  with  new  packs  of  cards.  To  an  ob- 
server there  was  something  indescribably  sad  in  this 
scene  of  poverty  decked  out  like  an  old  woman  who 
tries  to  give  the  lie  to  her  face.  Most  men  of  common 
sense  would  have  secretly  and  immediatel}^  formulated 
to  their  own  minds  a  problem :  were  these  women 
honor  and  uprightness  itself;  or  did  they  live  by  cards 
and  scheming?  But  the  sight  of  Adelaide  was  to  a 
young  man  as  pure  as  Schinner  the  proof  of  perfect 


272  The  Purse, 

innocence,  and  it  provided  the  incoherencles  of  the 
room  with  honorable  causes. 

'*  My  dear,"  said  the  old  lady  to  her  daughter,  "  I 
am  cold ;  make  us  a  httle  fire,  and  give  me  mj^  shawl." 

Adelaide  went  into  an  adjoining  room,  where  no  doubt 
she  slept  herself,  and  returned,  bringing  her  mother  a 
cashmere  shawl  which  when  new  must  have  been  of 
great  value,  but  being  old,  faded,  and  full  of  darns,  it 
harmonized  with  the  furniture  of  the  room.  Madame 
Leseigneur  wrapped  it  artistically  about  her  with  the 
cleverness  of  an  old  woman  who  wishes  to  make  you 
believe  in  the  truth  of  her  words.  The  young  girl 
darted  into  the  capharnaiim,  and  reappeared  with  a 
handful  of  small  wood  which  she  threw  into  the  fire. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  write  down  the  conversation 
which  took  place  between  these  three  persons.  Guided 
by  the  tact  which  deprivations  and  trials  endured  in 
youth  nearly  always  give  a  man,  Hippolyte  did  not 
venture  on  the  slightest  allusion  to  the  position  of  his 
neighbors,  though  he  saw  all  around  him  the  signs  of 
an  ill-disguised  indigence.  The  simplest  question  would 
have  been  indiscreet,  and  permissible  only  in  the  case 
of  an  old  friend.  And  yet  the  painter  was  deepl}' 
preoccupied  b^^  this  hidden  poverty  ;  his  generous  heart 
ached  for  it ;  knowing,  however,  that  all  kinds  of  pit3', 
even  the  most  S3'mpathetic,  maj^  be  offensive,  he  grew 
embarrassed  by  the  confiict  that  existed  between  his 


The  Purse.  273 

thoughts  and  his  words.  The  two  ladies  talked  first 
of  painting ;  for  women  readily  understand  the  secret 
embarrassments  of  a  first  visit;  perhaps  they  feel 
them,  and  the  nature  of  their  minds  gives  them  the 
art  of  overcoming  them.  By  questioning  the  young 
man  on  matters  of  his  profession  and  his  studies 
Adelaide  and  her  mother  emboldened  him  to  converse. 
The  little  nothings  of  their  courteous  and  lively  conver- 
sation soon  led  him  naturally  to  remarks  and  reflections 
which  showed  the  nature  of  his  habits  and  his  mind. 

Sorrows  had  prematurely  withered  the  face  of  the  old 
lady,  who  must  once  have  been  handsome,  though 
nothing  remained  of  her  good  looks  but  the  strong 
features  and  outlines,  —  in  other  words,  the  skeleton  of 
a  face  which  still  showed  infinite  delicacy  and  much 
charm  in  the  play  of  the  eyes,  which  possessed  a  cer- 
tain expression  peculiar  to  the  women  of  the  old  court, 
and  which  no  words  can  define.  These  delicate  and 
subtle  points  may,  however,  denote  an  evil  nature ; 
they  may  mean  feminine  guile  and  cunning  raised  to 
their  highest  pitch  as  much  as  they  may,  on  the  other 
hand,  reveal  the  delicacy  of  a  noble  soul.  In  fact,  the 
face  of  a  woman  is  embarrassing  to  all  commonplace 
observers,  inasmuch  as  the  difference  between  frankness 
and  duplicity,  between  the  genius  of  intrigue  and  the 
genius  of  the  heart  is,  to  such  observers,  imperceptible. 
A  man  endowed  with  a  penetrating  insight  can  guess 

18 


274  The  Purse. 

the  meaning  of  those  fleeting  tones  produced  by  a  line 
more  or  less  curved,  a  dimple  more  or  less  deep,  a 
feature  more  or  less  rounded  or  prominent.  The  un- 
derstanding of  such  diagnostics  lies  entirely  within  the 
domain  of  Intuition,  which  alone  can  discover  what 
others  are  seeking  to  hide.  The  face  of  this  old  lady 
was  like  the  apartment  she  occupied ;  it  seemed  as 
difficult  to  know  whether  the  penury  of  the  latter  cov- 
ered vices  or  integrity  as  to  decide  whether  Adelaide's 
mother  was  an  old  coquette  accustomed  to  weigh  and 
to  calculate  and  to  sell  everything,  or  a  loving  woman 
full  of  dignity  and  noble  qualities. 

But  at  Schinner's  age  the  first  impulse  of  the  heart  is 
to  believe  in  goodness.  So,  as  he  looked  at  Adelaide's 
noble  and  half-disdainful  brow,  and  into  her  eyes  that 
were  full  of  soul  and  of  thought,  he  breathed,  so  to 
speak,  the  sweet  and  modest  perfumes  of  virtue.  In 
the  middle  of  the  conversation  he  took  occasion  to  say 
something  about  portraits  in  general  that  he  might  have 
an  opportunity  to  examine  the  hideous  pastel  over  the 
chimney-piece,  the  colors  of  which  had  faded  and  in 
some  places  crumbled  off. 

"No  doubt  that  portrait  is  valuable  to  jiou,  ladies, 
on  account  of  its  resemblance,"  he  said,  lobking  at 
Adelaide,  *'for  the  drawing  is  horrible." 

**  It  was  done  in  China,  in  great  haste,"  said  the  old 
lady,  with  some  emotion. 


The  Purse,  275 

She  looked  up  at  the  miserable  sketch  with  that  sur- 
render to  feeling  which  the  memory  of  happiness  brings 
when  it  falls  upon  the  heart  like  a  blessed  dew,  to 
whose  cool  refreshment  we  delight  to  abandon  our- 
selves. But  in  that  old  face  thus  raised  there  were 
also  the  traces  of  an  eternal  grief.  At  least,  that  was 
how  the  painter  chose  to  interpret  the  attitude  and 
face  of  his  hostess,  beside  whom  he  now  seated  him- 
self. 

**  Madame,"  he  said,  "  before  long  the  colors  of  that 
pastel  will  have  faded  out.  The  portrait  will  then  ex- 
ist only  in  your  memory.  You  will  see  there  a  face 
that  is  dear  to  3'ou,  but  which  no  one  else  will  be  able 
to  recognize.  Will  you  permit  me  to  copy  that  picture 
on  canvas  ?  •  It  will  be  far  more  durable  than  what  you 
have  there  on  paper.  Grant  me,  as  a  neighbor,  the 
pleasure  of  doing  you  this  service.  There  come  times 
when  an  artist  is  glad  to  rest  from  his  more  important 
compositions  by  taking  up  some  other  work,  and  it  will 
really  be  a  rehef  to  me  to  paint  that  head." 

The  old  lady  quivered  as  she  heard  these  words,  and 
Adt^laide  cast  upon  the  artist  a  thoughtful  glance  which 
seemed  like  a  gush  of  the  soul  itself.  Hippolyte  wished 
to  attach  himself  to  his  two  neighbors  by  some  tie,  and 
to  win  the  right  to  mingle  his  life  with  theirs.  His 
offer,  addressing  itself  to  the  deepest  affections  of  the 
heart,  was  the  only  one  it  was  possible  for  him  to 


276  The  Purse. 

make ;  it  satisfied  his  artist's  pride,  and  did  not  wound 
that  of  the  ladies.  Madame  Leseigneur  accepted  it 
without  either  eagerness  or  reluctance,  but  with  that 
consciousness  of  generous  souls,  who  know  the  extent 
of  the  obligations  such  acts  fasten  on  them,  and  wlio 
accept  them  as  proofs  of  respect,  and  as  testimonials 
to  their  honor. 

"I  think,"  said  the  painter,  "that  that  is  a  naval 
uniform  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "that  of  a  captain  in  the  navy. 
Monsieur  de  Rouville,  m}'  husband,  died  at  Batavia, 
in  consequence  of  wounds  received  in  a  fight  with  an 
English  vessel  which  he  met  off  the  coast  of  Asia. 
He  commanded  a  frigate  mounting  fifty-six  guns,  but 
the  '  Revenge '  was  a  ninety-gun  ship.  The  battle 
was  unequal,  but  my  husband  maintained  it  bravely 
until  night,  under  cover  of  which  he  was  able  to  escape. 
When  I  returned  to  France,  Bonaparte  was  not  3'et  in 
power,  and  I  was  refused  a  pension.  Lately,  when  I 
applied  for  one  again,  the  minister  told  me  harshly  that 
if  the  Baron  de  Rouville  had  emigrated  I  should  not 
have  lost  him,  and  he  would  now  in  all  probabilitj'  be 
a  vice-admiral ;  his  Excellency  finally  refused  my  appli- 
cation under  some  law  of  forfeiture.  I  made  the  at- 
tempt, to  which  certain  friends  urged  me,  onl}^  for  the 
sake  of  mj^  poor  Adelaide.  I  have  always  felt  a  repug- 
nance to  hold  out  my  hand  for  money  on  the  ground  of 


The  Purse.  277 

a  sorrow  which  deprives  a  woman  of  her  voice  and 
her  strength.  I  do  not  like  these  valuations  of  blood 
irreparably  shed." 

'*Dear  mother,  it  always  harms  you  to  talk  on  this 
subject" 

At  these  words  the  Baronne  Leseigneur  de  Rouville 
bowed  her  head  and  said  no  more. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  the  young  girl  to  Hippolyte,  ^*  I 
thought  that  the  occupation  of  a  painter  was  generally 
a  rather  quiet  one?" 

At  this  question  Schinner  blushed,  recollecting  the 
noise  he  had  been  making  overhead.  Adelaide  did 
not  finish  what  she  seemed  about  to  say,  and  perhaps 
saved  him  from  telling  some  fib,  for  she  suddenly  rose 
at  the  sound  of  a  carriage  driving  up  to  the  door.  She 
went  into  her  room  and  returned  with  two  gilt  cande- 
labra filled  with  wax  tapers  which  she  quickly  lighted. 
Then,  without  waiting  for  the  bell  to  ring,  she  opened 
the  door  of  the  first  room  and  placed  the  lamp  on  the 
table.  The  sound  of  a  kiss  given  and  received  went  to 
the  depths  of  Hippolyte's  heart.  The  impatience  of  the 
young  man  to  see  who  it  was  that  treated  Adelaide  so 
familiarly  was  not  very  quickly  relieved,  for  the  new 
arrivals  held  a  murmured  conversation  with  the  girl, 
which  he  thought  verj^  long. 

At  last,  however.  Mademoiselle  de  Rouville  reap- 
peared, followed  by  two  men  whose  dress,  physiognomy, 


278  The  Purse. 

and  general  appearance  were  a  history  in  themselves. 
The  first,  who  was  about  sixty  3^ears  of  age,  wore  one 
of  those  coats  invented,  I  believe,  for  Louis  XVIII., 
then  reigning,  in  which  the  most  difficult  of  all  vestuar}' 
problems  was  solved  by  the  genius  of  a  tailor  who  ought 
to  be  immortalized.  That  artist  knew,  not  a  doubt  of 
it !  the  art  of  transitions,  which  constituted  the  genius 
of  that  period,  politically  so  fickle.  Surely,  it  was  a  rare 
merit  to  know  how  to  judge,  as  that  tailor  did,  of  his 
epoch  !  This  coat,  which  the  young  men  of  the  present 
day  may  consider  a  myth,  was  neither  civil  nor  mili- 
tary, but  might  pass  at  a  pinch  for  either  military  or 
civil.  Embroidered  fleurs-de-lis  adorned  the  flaps  be- 
hind. The  gold  buttons  were  also  fleur-de-lised.  On 
the  shoulders,  two  unused  ejelet-holes  awaited  the  use- 
less epaulets.  These  military  symptoms  were  there  like 
a  petition  without  a  backer.  The  buttonhole  of  the  old 
man  who  wore  this  coat  (of  the  color  called  "king's 
blue  *')  was  adorned  with  numberless  ribbons.  He  held, 
and  no  doubt  always  did  hold  in  his  hand  his  three- 
cornered  hat  with  gold  tassels,  for  the  snowy  wings  of  his 
powdered  hair  showed  no  signs  of  the  pressure  of  that 
covering.  He  looked  to  be  no  more  than  fifty,  and 
seem  to  enjoy  robust  health.  While  there  was  in  him 
every  sign  of  the  frank  and  loyal  nature  of  the  old 
emigres^  his  appearance  denoted  also  easy  and  liber- 
tine habits,  —  the  gay  passions  and  the  careless  joviality 


The  Purse,  279 

of  the  mousquetairea,  once  so  celebrated  in  the  annals 
of  gallantry.  His  gestures,  his  bearing,  his  manners, 
all  proclaimed  that  he  did  not  intend  to  change  his 
royalism,  nor  his  religion,  nor  his  mode  of  life. 

A  truly  fantastic  figure  followed  this  ga}'  ''  voltigeur 
of  Louis  XIV."  (that  was  the  nickname  given  by  the 
Bonapartists  to  these  relics  of  the  old  monarchy) ;  but 
to  paint  it  properly  the  individual  himself  ought  to  be 
the  principal  figure  in  a  picture  in  which  he  is  only 
an  accessory.  Imagine  a  thin  and  withered  personage, 
dressed  like  the  first  figure,  and  yet  only  the  reflection 
or  the  shadow  of  it.  The  coat  was  new  on  the  back  of 
the  one,  and  old  and  faded  on  that  of  the  other.  The 
powder  in  the  hair  of  the  counterpart  seemed  less  white, 
the  gold  of  the  fleurs-de-lis  less  dazzling,  the  eyelets 
more  vacant,  the  mind  weaker,  the  vital  strength  nearer 
its  termination,  than  in  the  other.  In  short,  he  realized 
that  saying  of  Rivarol  about  Champcenetz :  ''  He  is 
my  moonlight."  He  was  only  the  echo  of  the  other,  a 
faint,  dull  echo ;  between  the  two  there  was  all  the  dif- 
ference that  there  is  between  the  first  and  last  proof 
of  a  lithograph.  The  chevalier — for  he  was  a  chevalier 
—  said  nothing,  and  no  one  said  anything  to  him.  Was 
he  a  friend,  a  poor  relation,  a  man  who  stayed  by  the 
old  beau,  as  a  female  companion  by  an  old  woman? 
Was  he  a  mixture  of  dog,  parrot,  and  friend  ?  Had  he 
saved  the  fortune,  or  merely  the  life  of  his  benefactor? 


280  The  Purse. 

Was  he  the  Trim  of  another  Uncle  Tobj^  ?  Elsewhere, 
as  well  as  at  Madame  de  Rouville's,  he  excited  curiosity. 
Who  was  there  under  the  Restoration  who  could  recol- 
lect an  attachment  before  the  Revolution  on  the  part  of 
the  Chevalier  to  his  friend's  wife,  now  dead  for  over 
twent}'  years? 

The  personage  who  seemed  to  be  the  less  ancient 
of  these  two  relics,  advanced  gallantly  to  the  Baroune 
de  Rouville,  kissed  her  hand,  and  seated  himself  beside 
her.  The  other  bowed  and  sat  beside  his  chief,  at  a 
distance  represented  by  two  chairs.  Adelaide  came  up 
and  put  her  elbows  on  the  back  of  the  chair  occupied 
by  the  old  gentleman,  imitating  unconsciously  the  atti- 
tude which  Guerin  has  given  to  Dido's  sister  in  his 
famous  picture.  Though  the  familiarity  of  the  old  gen- 
tleman was  that  of  a  father,  it  seemed  for  a  moment  to 
displease  her. 

"  What !  do  you  mean  to  pout  at  me? "  he  said. 

Then  he  cast  one  of  those  oblique  glances  full  of 
shrewdness  and  perception  at  Schinner,  —  a  diplomatic 
glance,  the  expression  of  which  was  prudent  uneasi- 
ness, the  polite  curiosity  of  well-bred  people  who  seem 
to  ask  on  seeing  a  stranger,  "Is  he  one  of  us?  " 

"  This  is  our  neighbor,"  said  the  old  lady,  motioning 
to  Hippolyte.  **  Monsieur  is  the  celebrated  painter, 
whose  name  you  must  know  very  well  in  spite  of  yoxxt 
indifference  to  art." 


The  Purse.  281 

The  gentleman  smiled  at  his  old  friend's  mischievous 
omission  of  the  name,  and  bowed  to  the  young  man. 

''Yes,  indeed,"  he  said,  "  I  have  heard  a  great  deal 
about  his  pictures  in  the  Salon.  Talent  has  many 
privileges,  monsieur,"  he  added,  glancing  at  the  artist's 
red  ribbon.  ''That  distinction  which  we  acquire  at  the 
cost  of  our  blood  and  long  services,  you  obtain  young ; 
but  all  glories  are  sisters,"  he  added,  touching  the  cross 
of  Saint-Louis  which  he  wore. 

Hippolyte  stammered  a  few  words  of  thanks  and  re- 
tired into  silence,  content  to  admire  with  growing  en- 
thusiasm the  beautiful  head  of  the  young  girl  who 
charmed  him.  Soon  he  forgot  in  this  delightful  con- 
templation the  evident  poverty  of  her  home.  To  him, 
Adelaide's  face  detached  itself  from  a  luminous  back- 
ground. He  answered  briefly  all  questions  which  were 
addressed  to  him,  and  which  he  fortunately  heard, 
thanks  to  that  singular  faculty  of  the  soul  which  allows 
thought  to  run  double  at  times.  Who  does  not  know 
what  it  is  to  continue  plunged  in  a  deep  meditation, 
pleasurable  or  sad,  to  listen  to  the  inward  voice,  and 
yet  give  attention  to  a  conversation  or  a  reading? 
Wonderful  dualism,  which  often  helps  us  to  endure  bores 
with  patience !  Hope,  fruitful  and  smiling,  brought  him 
a  thousand  thoughts  of  happiness ;  what  need  for  him 
to  dwell  on  things  about  him  ?  A  child  full  of  trust,  he 
thought  it  shameful  to  analyze  a  pleasure. 


282  The  Purse, 

After  a  certain  lapse  of  time  he  was  aware  that  the 
old  lady  and  her  daughter  were  playing  cards  with  the 
old  gentleman.  As  to  the  satellite,  he  stood  behind  his 
friend,  wholh'^  occupied  with  the  latter's  game,  answer- 
ing the  mute  questions  the  pla\'er  made  to  him  by  little 
approving  grimaces  which  repeated  the  interrogative 
motions  of  the  other's  face. 

"  Du  Halga,  I  always  lose,"  said  the  gentleman. 

''  You  discard  too  carelessl}',"  said  the  baroness. 

*'  It  is  three  months  since  I  have  been  able  to  win  a 
single  game,"  said  he. 

"  Monsieur  le  comte,  have  3'ou  aces?"  asked  the  old 
lady. 

"Yes,  mark  one,"  he  answered. 

"Don't  you  want  me  to  advise  3'OU?"  said  Adelaide. 

"  No,  no  ;  stay  there  in  front  of  me  !  It  would  double 
my  losses  if  I  could  n't  see  your  face." 

At  last  the  game  ended.  The  old  gentleman  drew 
out  his  purse  and  threw  two  louis  on  the  table,  not 
without  ill-humor.  "Forty  francs,  as  true  as  gold!" 
said  he ;  "  and,  the  deuce !  it  is  eleven  o'clock." 

"  It  is  eleven  o'clock,"  repeated  the  mute  personage, 
looking  at  the  painter. 

The  young  man,  hearing  those  words  rather  more 
distinctly  than  the  others,  thought  it  was  time  to  with- 
draw. Returning  to  the  world  of  common  ideas,  he 
uttered  a  few  ordinar3^  phrases,  bowed  to  the  baroness, 


The  Purse,  283 

her  daughter,  and  the  two  gentlemen,  and  went  home, 
a  prey  to  the  first  joys  of  true  love,  without  trying  to 
analyze  the  little  events  of  this  evening. 

The  next  day  the  painter  was  possessed  with  the  most 
violent  desire  to  see  Adelaide  again.  If  he  had  listened 
to  his  passion  he  would  have  gone  to  his  neighbors  on 
arriving  at  his  studio  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
But  he  still  kept  his  senses  suflSciently  to  wait  till  the 
afternoon.  As  soon,  however,  as  he  thought  he  could 
present  himself  he  went  down  and  rang  their  bell,  not 
without  much  palpitation  of  the  heart,  and  then,  blush- 
ing like  a  girl,  he  timidly  asked  Mademoiselle  Le- 
seigneur,  who  had  opened  the  door,  for  the  portrait  of 
Monsieur  de  Rouville. 

*'  But  come  in,"  said  Adelaide,  who  had  no  doubt 
heard  his  step  on  the  stairway. 

The  painter  followed  her,  abashed  and  out  of  counte- 
nance, not  knowing  what  to  say,  —  so  stupid  did  his 
happiness  make  him.  To  see  Adelaide,  to  listen  to 
the  rustle  of  her  gown  after  longing  all  the  morning  to 
be  near  her,  after  jumping  up  a  dozen  times  and  saying, 
'*  I  will  go  !  "  and  yet  not  daring  to  do  so,  —  this,  to  him, 
was  so  rich  and  full  a  life  that  such  emotions  if  too  pro- 
longed would  have  exhausted  his  soul.  The  heart  has 
the  singular  property  of  giving  an  extraordinary  value 
to  nothings.  We  know  the  joy  a  traveller  feels  in 
gathering  the  twig  of  a  plant  or  a  leaf  unknown  to  him, 


284  The  Purse. 

when  he  has  risked  his  life  in  the  quest  The  nothings 
of  love  are  precious  in  the  same  way. 

The  old  lady  was  not  in  the  salon.  When  the  young 
girl  found  herself  alone  with  the  painter  she  brought  a 
chair  and  stood  on  it  to  take  down  the  portrait ;  but 
perceiving  that  she  could  not  unhook  it  without  stepping 
on  the  chest  of  drawers,  she  turned  to  Hippolyte  and 
said  to  him,  blushing :  — 

"  I  am  not  tall  enough.     Will  you  take  it  down?" 

A  feeling  of  modesty,  shown  in  the  expression  of  her 
face  and  the  accent  of  her  voice,  was  the  real  motive  of 
her  request ;  and  the  young  man,  so  understanding  it, 
gave  her  one  of  those  intelligent  glances  which  are  the 
sweetest  language  of  love.  Seeing  that  the  painter 
had  guessed  her  feeling,  Adelaide  lowered  her  eyes 
with  that  impulse  of  pride  which  belongs  only  to  virgins. 
Not  finding  a  word  to  say  and  feeling  almost  intimi- 
dated, the  painter  took  down  the  picture,  examined  it 
gravely  in  the  light  from  the  window,  and  then  went 
away  without  saying  anything  more  to  Mademoiselle 
Leseigneur  than,  "I  will  return  it  soon." 

Each  during  that  rapid  moment  felt  one  of  those 
mysterious,  violent  commotions  the  effects  of  which  in 
the  soul  can  be  compared  only  to  those  produced  by  a 
stone  when  flung  into  a  lake.  The  soft  expansions 
which  then  are  born  and  succeed  each  other,  indefinable, 
multiplying,  unending,  agitate  the  heart  as  the  rings  in 


The  Purse,  285 

the  water  widen  in  the  distance  from  the  centre  where 
the  stone  fell. 

Hippoh  te  returned  to  his  studio,  armed  with  the  por- 
trait. His  easel  was  already  prepared  with  a  canvas, 
the  palette  was  set  with  its  colors,  the  brushes  cleaned, 
the  light  aiTanged.  Until  his  dinner-hour  he  worked 
at  the  picture  with  that  eagerness  which  artists  put  into 
their  caprices.  In  the  evening  he  again  went  to  Madame 
de  Rouville's  and  remained  from  nine  to  eleven.  Except 
for  the  different  topics  of  conversation,  this  evening  was 
very  like  its  predecessor.  The  old  men  arrived  at  the 
same  hour,  the  same  game  of  piquet  was  played,  the 
same  phrases  were  repeated,  and  the  sum  lost  by 
Adelaide's  old  friend  was  the  same  as  that  lost  the 
night  before,  —  the  only  change  being  that  Hippolyte, 
grown  a  little  bolder,  ventured  to  talk  to  Adelaide. 

Eight  days  passed  in  this  way,  during  which  the 
feelings  of  the  painter  and  those  of  the  j'oung  girl 
underwent  those  delicious,  slow  transformations  which 
lead  3'oung  souls  to  a  perfect  understanding.  So,  day 
by  day,  Adc^laide's  glance  as  she  welcomed  her  friend 
became  more  intimate,  more  trustful,  ga3'er,  and  more 
frank  ;  her  voice,  her  manners  grew  more  winning,  more 
familiar.  They  both  laughed  and  talked  and  communi- 
cated their  ideas  to  each  other,  talking  of  themselves 
with  the  naivete  of  two  children,  who  in  the  course  of 
one  day  can  make  acquaintance  as  if  they  had  lived 


286  The  Furse. 

together  for  three  years.  Schinner  wished  to  learn 
piquet.  Totally  ignorant  of  the  game  he  naturally 
made  blunder  after  blunder ;  and,  like  the  old  gentle- 
man, he  lost  nearly  every  game. 

Without  having  yet  told  their  love,  the  two  lovers 
knew  very  well  that  they  belonged  to  each  other. 
Hippolyte  delighted  in  exercising  his  power  over  his 
timid  friend.  Man}^  a  concession  was  made  to  him  by 
Adelaide,  who,  tender  and  devoted  as  she  was,  was 
easily  the  dupe  of  those  pretended  sulks  which  the 
least  intelligent  of  lovers,  and  the  most  artless  of 
maidens  invent,  and  constantly  employ,  just  as  spoilt 
children  take  advantage  of  the  power  their  mother's 
love  has  given  them.  For  instance,  all  familiarity  sud- 
denly ceased  between  the  old  count  and  Adelaide. 
The  young  girl  understood  the  painter's  gloom,  and 
the  thoughts  hidden  beneath  the  folds  of  his  brow, 
from  the  harsh  tone  of  the  exclamations  he  made  as 
the  old  man  unceremoniously  kissed  her  hands  or 
throat.  On  the  other  hand.  Mademoiselle  Leseigneur 
soon  began  to  hold  her  lover  to  a  strict  account  of 
his  slightest  actions.  She  was  so  uneasy  and  so  un- 
happy if  he  did  not  come ;  she  knew  so  well  how  to 
scold  him  for  his  absence,  that  the  painter  renounced 
seeing  his  friends,  and  went  no  longer  into  society. 
Adelaide  showed  a  woman's  jealousj^  on  discovering 
that   sometimes,   after  leaving   Madame  de  Rouville's 


The  Pune,  287 

at  eleven  o'clock,  the  painter  made  other  visits  and 
appeared  in  several  of  the  gayest  salons  of  Paris. 
That  sort  of  life,  she  told  him,  was  very  bad  for  his 
health,  and  she  asserted,  with  the  profound  conviction 
to  which  the  tones,  the  gesture,  the  look  of  those  we 
love  give  such  immense  power,  that  "  a  man  who  was 
obliged  to  give  his  time  and  the  charms  of  his  mind  to 
several  women  at  once,  could  never  be  the  possessor  of 
a  really  deep  affection." 

So  the  painter  was  soon  led,  as  much  bj-  the  despot- 
ism of  his  passion  as  by  the  exactions  of  a  young  girl, 
to  live  almost  wholly  in  the  little  home  where  all  things 
pleased  him.  No  love  was  ever  purer  or  more  ardent. 
On  either  side  the  same  faith,  the  same  mind,  the  same 
delicacy,  made  their  passion  grow  apace  without  the 
help  of  those  sacrifices  by  which  so  many  persons 
seek  to  prove  their  love.  Between  these  lovers  there 
existed  so  constant  an  interchange  of  tender  feelings 
that  they  never  knew  who  gave  or  who  received  the 
most.  A  natural,  involuntary  inclination  made  the 
union  of  their  souls  close  indeed.  The  progress  of 
this  true  feeling  was  so  rapid  that  two  months  after 
the  accident  through  which  the  painter  obtained  the 
happiness  of  knowing  Ad(ilaide,  their  lives  had  be- 
come one  and  the  same  life.  From  early  morning  the 
young  girl,  hearing  a  step  above  her,  said  to  herself, 
"He  is  there!"     When  Hippolyte  returned  home  to 


288  The  Purse. 

dine  with  his  mother  he  never  failed  to  stop  on  his 
way  to  greet  his  friends  ;  and  in  the  evening  he  rushed 
to  them,  at  the  usual  hour,  with  a  lover's  punctuality. 
Thus  the  most  tyrannical  of  loving  women,  and  the 
heart  most  ambitious  of  love  could  have  found  no 
fault  with  the  3^oung  painter.  Adelaide  did  indeed 
taste  an  unalloyed  and  boundless  happiness  in  finding 
realized  to  its  fullest  extent  the  ideal  of  which  youth 
dreams. 

The  old  gentleman  now  came  less  often  ;  the  jealous 
Hippolyte  took  his  place  in  the  evening  at  the  green 
table,  and  was  equally  unlucky  at  cards.  But  in  the 
midst  of  his  happiness,  he  thought  of  Madame  de 
Rouville's  disastrous  position ,  —  for  he  had  seen  more 
than  one  sign  of  her  distress,  —  and  little  by  little  an 
importunate  thought  forced  its  way  into  his  mind. 
Several  times,  as  he  returned  home,  he  had  said  to 
himself,  "What!  twenty  francs  every  evening?" 
The  lover  dared  not  admit  a  suspicion.  He  spent 
two  months  on  the  portrait,  and  when  it  was  finished, 
varnished,  and  framed,  he  thought  it  one  of  his  best 
works.  Madame  de  Rouville  had  never  mentioned  it 
to  him ;  was  it  indifference  or  pride  which  kept  her 
silent?  The  painter  could  not  explain  it  to  himself. 
He  plotted  gayly  with  Adelaide  to  hang  the  picture 
in  its  right  place  when  Madame  de  Rouville  had  gone 
out  for  her  usual  walk  in  the  Tuileries. 


The  Purse,  289 

The  day  came,  and  Adelaide  went  up,  for  the  first 
time  alone,  to  Hippol3'te's  studio,  under  pretence  of 
seeing  the  portrait  favorably  in  the  light  in  which  it 
was  painted.  She  stood  before  it  silent  and  motion- 
less, in  a  delicious  contemplation  where  all  the  feelings 
of  womanhood  were  blended  into  one,  —  and  that  one, 
boundless  admiration  for  the  man  she  loved.  When 
the  painter,  uneasy  at  her  silence,  leaned  forward  to 
look  at  her,  she  held  out  her  hand  to  him  unable  to 
say  a  word;  but  two  tears  dropped  from  her  eyes. 
Hippolyte  took  that  hand  and  kissed  it,  and  for  a 
moment  they  looked  at  each  other  in  silence,  both 
wishing  to  avow  their  love,  neither  of  them  daring 
to.  As  the  painter  held  her  hand  within  his  own, 
an  equal  warmth,  an  equal  throb,  told  them  that  their 
hearts  were  beating  with  the  same  pulse.  Too  deeply 
moved,  the  young  girl  gently  left  her  lover's  side,  sa}-- 
ing,  with  a  guileless  look,  *' You  will  make  my  mother 
very  happy." 

''Your  mother  —  only?"  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  as  for  me,  I  am  too  happy,"  she  replied. 

The  painter  bent  his  head  and  was  silent,  frightened 
at  the  violence  of  the  feeling  the  tone  of  those  words 
awakened  in  his  heart.  Both  understood  the  danger 
of  their  position,  and  they  went  downstairs  with  the 
portrait  and  put  it  in  its  place.  That  night  Hippolyte 
dined  for  the  first  time  with  the  baroness,  who  kissed 

19 


290  The  Purse. 

him  with  tearful  gratitude.  In  the  evening  the  old 
emigre,  a  former  comrade  of  the  Baron  de  Rouville, 
made  a  special  visit  to  his  two  friends  to  announce  his 
appointment  as  a  vice-admiral.  His  terrestrial  navi- 
gations across  Germany  and  Russia  had  been  credited 
to  him  as  naval  campaigns.  When  he  saw  the  portrait, 
he  shook  the  painter  by  the  hand,  exclaiming ;  *'  Faith ! 
though  my  old  carcass  is  not  worth  preserving,  I*d 
gladly  give  five  hundred  pistoles  for  anything  as  like  me 
as  that  is  like  my  friend  Rouville." 

Hearing  the  proposal,  the  baroness  looked  at  her  friend 
with  a  smile,  and  let  the.  signs  of  a  sudden  gratitude 
appear  on  her  face.  Hippolyte  fancied  that  the  old 
admiral  intended  to  pay  the  price  of  the  two  portraits 
in  paying  for  his  own ;  he  was  offended,  and  said 
stiffly,  "Monsieur,  if  I  were  a  portrait-painter  I  should 
not  have  painted  that  one." 

The  admiral  bit  his  lips  and  began  to  pla3'.  The 
painter  sat  by  Adelaide,  who  proposed  him  six  kings 
which  he  accepted.  While  playing,  he  noticed  in 
Madame  de  Rouville  a  degree  of  eagerness  for  the 
game  which  surprised  him.  The  old  lady  had  never 
before  manifested  such  anxiety  to  win,  or  looked  with 
such  pleasure  at  the  admiral's  gold  coins.  During  that 
evening  suspicions  once  more  came  up  in  Hippolyte*3 
mind  to  trouble  his  happiness  and  give  him  a  certain 
sense  of  distrust.     Did  Miidame  de  Rouville  live  by, 


The  Purse,  291 

cards  ?  Was  she  playing  at  that  moment  to  pay  some 
debt,  or  was  she  driven  to  it  by  some  necessity  ?  Per- 
haps her  rent  was  due.  That  old  man  seemed  too 
worldly-wise  to  let  her  win  his  money  for  nothing. 
What  interest  brought  him  to  that  poor  house,  —  he, 
a  rich  man?  Why,  though  formerly  so  familiar  with 
Adelaide,  had  he  lately  renounced  all  familiarities,  — 
his  right  perhaps  ?  These  involuntary  thoughts  prompted 
Schinncr  to  examine  the  old  man  and  the  baroness,  whose 
glances  of  intelligence  and  the  oblique  looks  they  cast 
on  Adelaide  and  himself  displeased  him  greatlj^ 

*'  Can  it  be  that  they  deceive  me?" 

To  Hippolyte  the  thought  was  horrible,  withering; 
and  he  believed  it  just  so  far  as  to  let  it  torture  him. 
He  resolved  to  remain  after  the  departure  of  the  two 
old  men,  so  as  to  confirm  his  suspicions  or  get  rid  of 
them.  He  drew  out  his  purse  at  the  end  of  the  game, 
intending  to  pay  Adelaide,  but  his  mind  was  so  filled 
with  these  poignant  thoughts  that  he  laid  it  on  the  table 
and  fell  into  a  revery  which  lasted  several  minutes. 
Then,  ashamed  of  his  silence,  he  rose,  answered  some 
commonplace  inquiry  of  Madame  de  Rouville's,  going 
close  up  to  her  to  scrutinize  that  aged  face.  He  left 
the  salon  a  prey  to  dreadful  uncertainties.  After  going 
down  a  few  stairs,  he  recollected  his  purse  and  went 
back  to  get  it.     ''I  left  my  purse, '  he  said  to  Adelaide. 

*'  No,"  she  answered,  coloring. 


292  The  Purse. 

"  I  thought  I  left  it  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
card-table. 

Ashamed  for  both  mother  and  daughter  at  not  finding 
it,  he  stood  looking  at  them  with  a  bewildered  air  which 
made  them  both  laugh ;  then  he  turned  pale,  and  felt  in 
his  waistcoat  pockets,  stammering,  **  I  am  mistaken, 
I  must  have  it  somewhere." 

At  one  end  of  the  purse  were  fifteen  louis,  at  the 
other  some  small  change.  The  robbery  was  so  flagrant, 
so  impudently  denied,  that  Hippolyte  had  no  doubt  as 
to  the  character  of  his  neighbors.  He  stood  still  on  the 
staircase,  for  he  could  hardly  go  down ;  his  legs  trem- 
bled, his  head  swam,  he  perspired,  his  teeth  chattered 
in  a  cold  chill,  and  he  was  literally  unable  to  walk  in 
the  grasp  of  that  cruel  convulsion  caused  by  the  over- 
throw of  all  his  hopes.  At  that  moment,  a  crowd  of 
apparently  trifling  circumstances  came  back  into  his 
mind,  all  corroborating  his  dreadful  suspicions ;  taken 
together  with  the  certainty  of  this  last  act,  they  opened 
his  ej'es  to  the  character  and  the  life  of  the  two  women. 
Had  they  waited  till  the  portrait  was  done  to  steal  his 
purse?  Thus  combined  with  profit,  the  theft  seemed 
more  odious  than  at  first.  The  painter  remembered, 
with  anguish,  that  for  the  last  two  or  three  evenings 
Adelaide  had  examined,  with  what  seemed  girlish  curi- 
osity, the  netting  of  the  worn  silk,  probably  to  ascertain 
the  sum  contained  in  the  purse,  —  making  jests  that 


The  Purse,  293 

seemed  innocent,  but  were  no  doubt  intended  to  cover 
the  fact  that  she  was  watching  for  the  time  when  the 
purse  should  be  well  filled. 

"  The  old  admiral  must  have  good  reasons  for  not 
marrying  her,  and  the  baroness  intends  that  I  —  " 

He  stopped,  and  did  not  continue  the  thought,  for  it 
was  checked  by  one  more  just. 

»*  If,"  thought  he,  '*  the  baroness  wished  me  to  marry 
her  daughter  they  would  not  have  robbed  me." 

Then,  unable  to  renounce  his  illusions,  or  to  abandon 
a  love  so  deeply  rooted  in  his  being,  he  tried  to  find 
some  explanation.  *'  My  purse  must  have  fallen  on  the 
ground;  perhaps  it  was  under  my  chair;  perhaps  I 
have  it,  I  am  so  absent-minded !  "  He  felt  in  all  his 
pockets  with  rapid  motions,  —  but  no,  that  cursed  purse 
was  not  in  them.  His  cruel  memory  recalled  every 
particular  of  the  fatal  facts  ;  he  distinctly  saw  the  purse 
lying  on  the  table.  Unable  to  doubt  the  thefb,  he  now 
excused  Adelaide,  saying  to  himself  that  no  one  ought 
to  judge  the  poor  and  unfortunate  too  hastily.  No 
doubt  there  was  some  secret  in  this  apparently  de- 
grading action.  He  would  not  allow  himself  to  believe 
that  that  proud,  noble  face  was  a  lie.  Nevertheless, 
that  miserable  apartment  had  now  lost  all  those  poesies 
of  love  which  once  embellished  it ;  he  saw  it  as  it  was, 
dirty  and  faded  ;  it  seemed  the  outward  likeness  of  an 
inward  life  without  nobleness,  unoccupied  and  vicious. 


294  The  Purse. 

Are  not  our  feelings  written,  so  to  speak,  on  the  things 
about  us? 

The  next  morning  he  rose  without  having  slept. 
The  anguish  of  the  heart,  that  serious  moral  malady , 
had  made  great  strides  into  his  being.  To  lose  an 
imagined  happiness,  to  renounce  an  expected  future, 
is  far  more  bitter  suflfering  than  that  caused  by  the 
ruin  of  an  experienced  joy,  however  great  that  joy 
may  have  been.  Is  not  hope  better  than  memory? 
The  meditations  into  which  our  souls  suddenly  fall 
are  then  like  a  shoreless  sea,  on  whose  bosom  we 
may  float  for  a  moment,  though  nothing  can  Save 
our  love  from  sinking  and  perishing.  It  is  a  dreadful 
death.  Are  not  our  feelings  the  most  vivid  and  glori- 
ous  part  of  our  lives?  From  such  partial  death  as 
this  come  those  great  ravages  seen  in  certain  organiza- 
tions that  are  both  delicate  and  strong,  when  assailed 
bj^  disillusions  or  by  the  balking  of  hopes  and  passions. 
Thus  it  was  with  the  young  painter.  He  went  out 
early  in  the  morning  and  walked  about  in  the  cool 
shade  of  the  Tuileries,  absorbed  in  thought,  and  taking 
no  notice  of  any  one.  There,  by  chance,  one  of  his 
young  friends  met  him,  a  college  and  atelier  comrade, 
with  whom  he  had  lived  as  with  a  brother. 

'*  Why,  Hippolj^te,  what's  the  matter?"  said  Fran- 
5ois  Souchet,  a  3'oung  sculptor  who  had  just  obtained 
the  grand  prix  and  was  soon  going  to  Itaty. 


The  Purse.  296 

**  I  am  verj'  unhappj^"  replied  Hippol3'te,  gravely. 

**  Nothing  but  a  love-affair  can  make  3011  so.  Wealth, 
fame,  consideration,  —  you  have  everything  else ! " 

liittle  by  little,  the  confidences  began,  and  finally 
the  painter  acknowledged  his  love.  When  he  spoke  of 
the  rue  de  Suresnes,  and  of  a  j'oung  girl  living  on  the 
fourth  story,  *'Halt!"  cried  Souchet,  gayl}-,  "that's 
a  little  girl  I  go  to  see  everj^  morning  at  the  Assump- 
tion ;  I  'm  courting  her.  Whj',  my  dear  fellow,  we  all 
know  her.  Her  mother  is  a  baroness.  Do  you  believe 
in  baronesses  who  live  on  a  fourth  fioor?  Brrr !  Well, 
well !  you  belong  to  the  age  of  gold.  The  rest  of  us 
meet  that  old  mother  every  da}'  in  the  Tuileries.  That 
face  of  hers,  and  the  waj'  she  carries  herself  tells  all. 
Come  now,  did  3'ou  never  guess  what  she  is,  from  the 
way  she  carries  her  bag  ?  " 

The  two  friends  walked  about  for  some  time,  and 
several  3'oung  men  who  knew  Schinner  and  Souchet 
joined  them.  The  painter's  love-affair  was  related  by 
the  sculptor,  who  supposed  it  of  little  importance. 

Many  were  the  outcries,  the  laughs,  the  jests,  inno- 
cent enough,  but  full  of  the  familiar  gayety  of  artists, 
and  horribly  painful  to  Hippolyte.  A  certain  chastity 
of  soul  made  him  suffer  at  the  sight  of  his  heart's  secret 
lightl}'  tossed  about,  his  passion  torn  to  shreds,  the 
young  girl,  whose  life  had  seemed  to  him  so  modest, 
judged,  truly  or  falsely,  with  such  careless  indifference. 


296  The  Purse, 

*'But,  my  dear  fellow,  have  you  never  seen  the 
baroness's  shawl  ?  "  said  Souchet. 

"Don't  you  ever  follow  the  little  one  when  she 
goes  to  the  Assumption?**  said  Joseph  Bridau,  a 
young  art-student  in  Gros's  atelier. 

*'Ha!  the  mother  has,  among  her  other  virtues,  a 
gray  dress  which  I  regard  as  a  type,"  said  Bixiou,  the 
caricaturist. 

**  Listen,  Hippolyte  ;  "  said  the  sculptor,  ''  come  here 
at  four  o'clock,  and  analj-ze  the  demeanor  of  the  mother 
and  daughter.  If,  after  that,  you  have  an}-  doubts,  I 
give  you  up,  —  nothing  can  ever  be  made  of  you ; 
you  '11  be  capable  of  marrying  your  porter's  daughter." 

The  painter  parted  from  his  friends  a  victim  to  a 
contradiction  of  feelings.  Adelaide  and  her  mother 
seemed  to  him  above  such  accusations,  and  at  the 
bottom  of  his  heart  he  felt  remorse  for  having  ever 
doubted  the  purity  of  that  3'oung  girl,  so  beautiful 
and  so  simple.  He  went  to  his  studio,  he  passed  the 
door  of  the  room  where  she  was  sitting,  and  he  felt 
within  his  soul  the  anguish  that  no  man  ever  misun- 
derstands. He  loved  Mademoiselle  de  Rouville  so 
passionately  that,  in  spite  of  the  robbery  of  his  purse, 
he  adored  her  still.  His  love  was  like  that  of  the 
Chevalier  des  Grieux,  adoring  and  purifying  his  mis- 
tress in  his  thoughts  as  she  sat  in  the  cart  on  her  way 
to  the  prison  for  lost  women. 


The  Purse,  297 

<*  Why  should  not  mj'  love  make  her  the  purest  of 
beings?  Shall  I  abandon  her  to  sin  and  vice,  and 
stretch  no  friendly'  hand  to  her  ?  "  That  mission  pleased 
him.  Love  makes  profit  out  of  all.  Nothing  attracts  a 
3'oung  man  so  much  as  the  thought  of  pla3-ing  the  part 
of  a  good  genius  to  a  woman.  There  is  something  truly 
chivalrous  in  such  an  enterprise  which  commends  itself 
to  lofty  souls.  Is  it  not  the  deepest  devotion  under  the 
highest  form,  and  the  most  gracious  form?  What 
grandeur  in  knowing  that  we  love  enough  to  love  still 
where  the  love  of  others  would  be  a  dead  thing ! 

Hippolyte  sat  down  in  his  studio,  and  contemplated 
his  picture  without  touching  it.  Night  overtook  him  in 
that  attitude.  Wakened  from  his  revery  by  the  dark- 
ness, he  went  downstairs,  met  the  old  admiral  on  the 
stairway,  gave  him  a  gloomy  glance  and  a  bow,  and 
fled  away.  He  had  meant  to  go  to  his  neighbors,  but 
the  sight  of  Adelaide's  protector  froze  his  heart  and 
overcame  his  resohition.  He  asked  himself,  for  the 
hundredth  time,  what  interest  it  could  be  that  brought 
that  old  beau,  a  man  worth  eightj'-thousand  francs  a 
year,  to  that  fourth  story  where  he  lost  forty  francs  a 
night ;  that  interest,  he  fancied,  alas,  he  knew. 

The  next  day  and  the  following  days  Hippolyte  spent 
on  his  work,  trying  to  fight  his  passion  by  flinging  him- 
self into  the  rush  of  ideas  and  the  fire  of  conception . 
He  succeeded  only  partially.     Study  comforted  him, 


298  The  Purse, 

but  it  did  not  stifle  the  memory  of  those  dear  hours 
passed  with  Adelaide.  One  evening,  leaving  his  studio, 
he  found  the  door  of  the  apartments  of  the  two  ladies 
half-open.  Some  one  was  standing  in  the  recess  of  the 
window.  The  position  of  the  door  and  the  stairs  was 
such  that  Hippolj'te  could  not  pass  without  seeing 
Adelaide.  He  bowed  coldl}',  with  a  glance  of  indiffer- 
ence ;  then,  judging  of  her  sufferings  by  his  own,  an 
inward  tremor  overcame  him,  thinking  of  the  bitterness 
his  cold  glance  might  have  carried  to  a  loving  heart. 
What !  end  the  sweetest  joys  that  ever  filled  two  sacred 
hearts,  with  the  scorn  of  an  eight  days*  absence,  with  a 
contempt  too  deep  for  words  ?  —  horrible  conclusion  ! 
Perhaps  that  purse  was  found !  he  had  never  inquired  ; 
perhaps  Adelaide  had  expected  him,  in  vain,  every 
evening!  This  thought,  so  simple,  so  natural,  filled 
the  lover  with  fresh  remorse ;  he  asked  himself  if  the 
proofs  of  attachment  the  young  girl  had  given  him,  if 
those  delightful  conversations  bearing  the  impress  of 
love  and  of  a  mind  which  charmed  him  did  not  deserve 
at  least  an  inquiry,  —  whether  indeed  the}-  were  not  a 
pledge  of  justification.  Ashamed  of  having  resisted 
the  longings  of  his  heart  for  one  whole  week,  thinking 
himself  almost  criminal  in  the  struggle,  he  went  that 
same  evening  to  Madame  de  Rouville's.  All  his  sus- 
picions, all  his  thoughts  of  evil  vanished  at  the  sight  of 
the  young  girl,  now  pale  and  thin. 


The  Purse.  299 

**  Good  God !  what  is  the  matter?  "  he  said  to  her, 
after  bowing  to  Madame  de  Rouville. 

Adelaide  made  no  answer,  but  she  gave  him  a  sad, 
discouraged  look  which  went  to  his  heart. 

**  You  look  as  if  you  had  been  working  too  hard," 
said  the  old  lady.  **  You  are  changed.  I  fear  we  have 
been  the  cause  of  your  seclusion.  That  portrait  must 
have  delayed  other  work  more  important  for  your 
reputation." 

Hippolyte  was  only  too  happy  to  find  so  good  an 
excuse  for  his  absence.  **  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  have  becR 
very  busy  —  but  I  have  suffered  —  " 

At  these  words  Adelaide  raised  her  head ;  her  eyes 
no  longer  reproached  him. 

**  You  have,  then,  thought  us  indifferent  to  what 
makes  you  happy  or  unhappy  ?  "  said  the  old  lady. 

"  I  have  done  wrong,"  he  said.  ''  And  3'et  there  are 
sufferings  which  we  can  tell  to  no  one,  no  matter  who 
it  is,  even  to  a  heart  that  maj'  have  known  us  long." 

**  The  sincerity  and  the  strength  of  friendship  ought 
not  to  be  measured  by  time.  I  have  seen  old  fnends 
who  could  not  shed  a  tear  for  each  other's  misfortune," 
said  the  baroness,  nodding  her  head. 

'^  But  tell  me,  what  is  the  matter?"  asked  Hippolyte 
of  the  poor  girl. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  the  baroness;  ** Adelaide  in- 
sisted on  sitting  up  two  or  three  nights  to  finish  a  piece 


300  TJlb  Purse, 

of  work ;  she  would  not  listen  to  me  when  I  told  her 
that  a  da3^  more  or  less  could  make  no  difference  —  " 

Hippolyte  was  not  listening.  Seeing  those  two  faces, 
so  calm,  so  noble,  he  blushed  for  his  suspicions  and 
attributed  the  loss  of  the  purse  to  some  mysterious 
accident.  That  evening  was  delightful  to  him,  and 
perhaps  to  her.  There  are  secrets  that  young  souls 
understand  so  well.  Adelaide  divined  her  lover's 
thoughts.  Without  intending  to  reveal  his  wrong- 
doing, Hippolyte  tacitlj'  admitted  it ;  he  returned  to 
his  mistress  more  loving,  more  affectionate  than  ever, 
as  if  to  buy  a  silent  pardon.  Adelaide  now  tasted  joys 
so  sweet,  so  perfect,  that  the  pangs  which  had  cruelly 
bruised  her  spirit  seemed  but  a  slight  penalty  to  pay 
for  them.  And  yet  that  absolute  accord  between  their 
hearts,  that  comprehension  which  was  full  of  magic, 
was  clouded  suddenly  by  a  little  speech  of  Madame  de 
Rouville's.  "Let  us  get  ready  for  our  game,"  she 
said.     "  My  old  Kergarouet  insists  upon  it." 

That  speech  roused  all  the  poor  painter's  fears ;  he 
blushed  as  he  looked  at  Adelaide's  mother.  Yet  he 
could  see  on  that  face  no  other  expression  than  one  of 
a  true  kind-heartedness  without  insinceritj' ;  no  latent 
thought  destroyed  its  charm ;  in  its  shrewdness  there 
was  no  perfidy ;  the  gentle  satire  it  expressed  seemed 
tender,  and  no  remorse  marred  its  placidity.  So  he  sat 
down  at  the  card-table.    Adelaide  shared  his  game, 


The  Purse,  801 

pretending  that  he  did  not  know  piquet  and  needed  an 
adviser.  While  they  played,  signs  of  an  understand- 
ing passed  between  the  mother  and  daughter  which 
again  made  Hippolyte  anxious,  —  all  the  more  because, 
for  once,  he  was  winning.  At  last,  however,  a  lucky 
throw  put  the  lovers  in  Madame  de  Rouville's  debt. 
Hippolyte  withdrew  his  hands  from  the  table  to  search 
for  money  in  his  pockets,  and  suddenly  saw  lying 
before  him  a  purse  which  Adelaide  had  slipped  there 
without  his  noticing  her ;  the  poor  child  held  his  own 
pui*se  in  her  hand,  and  was  hiding  her  confusion  by 
pretending  to  look  for  money  to  pay  her  mother.  The 
blood  rushed  so  violently  to  Hippolyte's  heart  that  he 
almost  lost  consciousness.  The  new  purse  substituted 
for  the  old  one  had  the  fifteen  louis  in  it,  and  was 
worked  with  gold  beads.  The  rings,  the  tassels,  all 
proved  the  good  taste  of  the  maker,  who  had  no  doubt 
spent  her  little  savings  on  those  ornaments  of  her  pretty 
work.  It  was  impossible  to  sa}'  with  greater  delicacy 
that  the  painter's  gift  could  be  acknowledged  only  by  a 
pledge  of  tenderness. 

When  HipiK)lyte,  overcome  with  happiness,  turned 
his  eyes  on  Adelaide  and  her  mother  he  saw  them 
trembling  with  pleasure,  happy  in  the  success  of  their 
little  fraud.  He  felt  himself  small,  petty,  contemptible  ; 
he  longed  to  punish  himself,  to  rend  his  heart.  Tears 
came  into  his  eyes,  and  he  sprang  up  with  an  irresistible 


302  The  Purse, 

impulse,  took  Adelaide  in  his  arms,  pressed  her  to  his 
heart,  snatched  a  kiss,  and  cried,  with  the  honest  good- 
faith  of  an  artist,  looking  straight  at  the  baroness :  — 
'•'•  I  ask  you  to  give  her  to  me  for  mj^  wife  !  " 
Adelaide's  e3^es  as  she  looked  at  him  were  half-angrj^ 
and  Madame  de  Rouville,  somewhat  astonished,  was 
seeking  a  replj-  when  the  scene  was  interrupted  hy  a 
ring  at  the  bell.  The  vice-admiral  appeared,  followed 
b}^  Madame  Schinner.  After  guessing  the  cause  of  her 
son's  grief,  which  he  had  vainly  tried  to  hide  from 
her,  Hippolyte's  mother  had  made  inquiries  among  her 
friends  as  to  Adelaide.  Alarmed  by  the  calumnies 
which  assailed  the  young  girl,  unknown  to  the  old  ad- 
miral, the  Comte  de  Kergarou^t,  she  went  to  the  latter 
and  told  him  what  she  had  heard.  In  his  fury  he  wanted, 
he  said,  "  to  cut  the  ears  of  those  rascals."  Excited  b}^ 
his  wrath  he  told  Madame  Schinner  the  secret  of  his 
visits  and  his  intentional  losses  at  cards,  that  being  the 
only  way  in  which  the  baroness's  pride  gave  him  a 
chajice  to  succor  the  widow  of  his  old  friend. 

When  Madame  Schinner  had  paid  her  respects  to 
Madame  de  Rouville,  the  latter  looked  at  the  Comte  de 
Kergarouet,  the  Chevalier  du  Halga  (the  former  friend 
of  the  late  Comtesse  de  Kergarouet),  then  at  Hippolyte 
and  Adelaide,  and  said,  with  the  delightful  manners  of 
the  heart,  "  We  seem,  I  think,  to  be  a  family  party." 


LA   GRENADlflRE. 


TO   CAROLINE. 


To    THE    POESY    OP     HIS    JOURNET. 

A  Grateful  Traveller. 

La  GrenadiAre  is  a  little  habitation  on  the  right 
bank  of  the  Loire,  sloping  towards  it  and  about  a 
mile  from  the  bridge  of  Tours.  Just  here  the  river, 
broad  as  a  lake,  is  strewn  with  green  islets,  and  mar- 
gined by  rocky  shores,  on  which  are  numerous  country-- 
houses, all  built  of  white  stone  and  surrounded  by 
vine3'ards  and  gardens,  in  which  the  finest  fruits  in 
the  world  ripen  under  a  sunny  exposure.  Industri- 
ously terraced  b}*  generation  after  generation,  the  hol- 
lows of  the  rock  reflect  the  rays  of  the  sun,  and  the 
artificial  temperature  thus  produced  allows  the  culti- 
vation of  the  products  of  hot  climates  in  the  open 
ground. 

From  one  of  the  least  sunken  of  these  hollows  which 
cut  into  the  hillside,  rises  the  sharp  steeple  of  Saint- 
C3T,  a  little  village  to  which  the  scattered  houses  nomi- 
nally belong.     A  little  be3'ond,  the  Choisille  falls  into 


304  La  Grenadiere. 

the  Loire,  through  a  rich  valley  which  runs  up  among 
the  hills.  La  Grenadiere  [The  Pomegranate],  standing 
half-way  up  the  rocky  shore,  about  three  hundred  feet 
from  the  church,  is  one  of  those  venerable  homesteads 
some  two  or  three  hundred  years  old,  which  are  seen 
in  every  lovely  situation  in  Touraine.  A  cleft  in  the 
rock  has  facilitated  the  making  of  a  stairway,  which 
descends  by  easy  steps  to  the  "lev^e," — the  local  name 
given  to  the  dike  built  at  the  base  of  the  slope  to  keep 
the  Loire  to  its  bed,  and  along  which  runs  the  mail 
road  from  Paris  to  Nantes. 

At  the  top  of  this  flight  of  steps  is  a  gate  opening  on 
a  narrow,  stony  road,  cut  between  two  terraces  which 
resemble  fortifications,  covered  with  vines  and  palings 
to  prevent  the  rolling  down  of  the  earth.  This  path- 
way, starting  from  the  foot  of  the  upper  terrace,  and 
nearly  hidden  by  the  trees  that  crown  it,  leads  to  the 
house  by  a  steep  pitch,  giving  a  view  of  the  river  which 
enlarges  at  every  step.  This  sunken  path  ends  at  a 
second  gate,  gothic  in  character,  arched,  and  bearing 
a  few  simple  ornaments,  which  is  now  in  ruins  and 
overgrown  with  gilli-flowers,  ivj^  mosses,  and  pellitor3^ 
These  ineradicable  plants  decorate  the  walls  of  all  the 
terraces,  hanging  from  the  clefts  of  the  stone  courses 
and  designating  each  season  by  a  garland  of  its  own 
flowers. 

Beyond   this  mouldy  gate  a  little  garden,  wrested 


La   Grenadicre,  305 

from  the  rock  b}^  another  terrace,  with  an  old  and 
blackened  balustrade  which  overlooks  the  rest,  pre- 
sents a  lawn  adorned  by  a  few  trees,  and  a  multitude 
of  roses  and  other  flowering  plants.  Opposite  to  the 
gate,  at  the  other  end  of  the  terrace,  is  a  wooden 
pavilion  resting  against  a  neighboring  wall,  the  posts 
of  which  are  hidden  under  jasmine,  honeysuckle,  vines, 
and  clematis.  In  the  middle  of  the  garden  stands  the 
house,  beyond  a  vaulted  portico  covered  with  vines,  on 
which  is  the  gate  of  a  huge  cellar  hollowed  in  the  rock. 
The  house  is  suiTounded  with  vine-clad  arbors,  and 
pomegranate-trees  —  whicli  give  their  name  to  the  place, 
—  are  growing  in  the  open  ground.  The  fa9ade  has 
two  large  windows  separated  by  a  very  countrified  front- 
door, and  three  attic  windows,  placed  very  high  up 
in  the  roof  relatively  to  the  low  height  of  the  ground 
floor.  This  roof  has  two  gables  and  is  covered  with 
slate.  The  walls  of  the  main  building  are  painted 
yellow,  and  the  door,  the  shutters  on  the  lower  floor, 
and  the  blinds  on  the  roof  are  green. 

When  you  enter  the  house,  j'ou  find  a  little  hall-way 
with  a  winding  staircase,  the  grade  of  which  changes 
at  every  turn ;  the  wood  is  rotten,  and  the  balusters, 
turning  like  a  screw,  are  discolored  by  long  usage. 
To  the  right  of  the  door  is  a  vast  dining-room  with 
antique  panelling,  floored  in  white  tiles,  manufactured 
at  Chateau-Regnault ;  on  the  left  is  the  salon,  a  room 

20 


306  La   G-renadiere, 

of  the  same  size,  but  without  panels,  hung  with  a  gold- 
colored  paper  with  green  bordering.  Neither  of  the 
two  rooms  has  a  plastered  ceiling.  The  joists  are  of 
walnut,  and  the  spaces  are  filled  in  with  a  natural 
white  clay  mixed  with  hair.  On  the  first  floor  are 
two  large  chambers  with  white-washed  walls ;  the  stone 
chimney-pieces  in  these  rooms  are  less  richly  carved 
than  those  in  the  rooms  below.  All  the  windows  face 
south.  To  the  north  there  is  only  a  door  opening  be- 
hind the  staircase  on  a  vineyard. 

On  the  left  of  the  house,  a  building  with  a  wooden 
front  backs  against  the  wall ;  the  wood  being  protected 
from  the  sun  and  rain  by  slates  which  lie  in  long  blue 
lines,  upright  and  transversal,  upon  the  walls.  The 
kitchen,  consigned  as  it  were  to  this  cottage,  commu- 
nicates with  the  house,  but  it  has  an  entrance  of  its 
own  raised  from  the  ground  by  a  few  steps,  near  to 
which  is  a  deep  well  covered  with  a  rustic  pump ; 
its  sides  overgrown  with  water-plants  and  tall  grass 
and  juniper.  This  recent  construction  proves  that 
La  Grenadiere  was  originally  a  mere  veyidangeoir^ 
where  the  owners,  living  in  the  city  (from  which  it  is 
separated  only  by  the  broad  bed  of  the  Loire),  came 
only  to  attend  to  their  vintages,  or  to  bring  parties  of 
pleasure.  On  such  occasions  they  sent  provisions  for 
the  day,  and  slept  there  at  night  only  when  the  grapes 
were  being  gathered. 


La  Grenadiere,  307 

But  the  English  have  fallen  like  a  swarm  of 
grass-hoppers  upon  Touraine,  and  La  Grenadiere  was 
furnished  with  a  kitchen  that  the}^  might  hire  it. 
Fortunately  this  modern  appendage  is  concealed  b}'' 
the  first  lindens  planted  along  a  path  running  down 
a  ravine  behind  the  orchard.  The  vineyard,  of  about 
two  acres,  rises  above  the  house,  and  overlooks  it 
on  a  slope  so  steep  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  climb. 
Between  the  back  of  the  house  and  this  hill,  green 
with  trailing  shoots,  is  a  narrow  space  of  not  more 
than  five  feet,  always  cold  and  damp,  a  sort  of  ditch 
full  of  rampant  vegetation,  and  filled  in  rainy  weather 
with  the  drainage  from  the  vineyard,  used  to  enrich 
the.  soil  of  the  flower-beds  of  the  terrace  with  the 
balustrade. 

The  little  house  of  the  vine-dresser  backs  against  the 
left  gable ;  it  has  a  thatched  roof  and  makes  a  sort  of 
pendant  to  the  kitchen.  The  whole  property  is  enclosed 
by  walls  and  palings ;  the  orchard  is  planted  with  fruit- 
trees  of  all  kinds  ;  in  short,  not  an  inch  of  the  precious 
soil  is  lost  to  cultivation.  If  man  neglects  an  arid 
corner  of  this  rock,  Natire  flings  into  it  a  fig-tree 
perhaps,  or  wild-flowers,  or  a  few  strawberry- vines 
sheltered  among  the  stones. 

Nowhere  in  the  world  can  you  find  a  home  so  modest, 
yet  so  grand,  so  rich  in  products,  in  fragrance,  and 
in  outlook.     It  is  in  the  heart  of  Touraine,  a  little 


308       ^  La   Grenadiere, 

Touraine  in  itself,  where  all  the  flowers,  all  the  fruits, 
all  the  beauties  of  that  region  are  fully  represented. 
There  are  the  grapes  of  every  clime,  the  figs,  the 
peaches,  the  pears  of  every  species,  melons  growing 
wild  in  the  open  ground,  as  well  as  liquorice,  the  yellow 
broom  of  Spain,  the  oleanders  of  Italj^,  the  jasmine  of 
the  Azores.  The  Loire  flows  at  your  feet.  You  look 
down  upon  it  from  a  terrace  raised  thirty  fathom  above 
its  capricious  waters.  You  inhale  its  breezes  coming 
fresh  from  the  sea  and  perfumed  on  their  way  by  the 
flowers  along  its  shores.  A  wandering  cloud,  which 
changes  at  every  instant  its  color  and  its  form  as  it 
moves  in  space  beneath  the  cloudless  blue  of  heaven, 
gives  a  thousand  varied  aspects  to  each  detail  of  that 
glorious  scenery  which  meets  the  eye  wherever  turned. 
From  there,  you  may  see  the  river  shores  from  Amboise, 
the  fertile  plain  where  rises  Tours,  its  suburbs,  its  manu- 
factories, and  Le  Plessis  ;  also  a  portion  of  the  left  bank, 
from  Vouvray  to  Saint-Sj^mphorien,  describing  a  half- 
circle  of  smiling  vineyards.  The  view  here  is  limited 
only  by  the  rich  slopes  of  Cher,  a  blue  horizon  broken 
by  parks  and  villas.  To  the  west  the  soul  is  lost  in 
contemplation  of  the  broad  sheet  of  waters  which  bears 
upon  its  bosom,  at  all  hours,  vessels  with  white  sails 
filled  with  the  winds  which  ever  sweep  its  vast  basin. 

A  prince  might  make   La   Grenadiere  his  villa;   a 
poet  would  make  it  his  home ;  lovers  would  count  it 


La   Grenadiere,  309 

their  sweetest  refuge  ;  a  worthy  burgher  of  Tours  might 
live  there,  —  the  spot  has  poems  for  all  imaginations, 
for  the  humblest,  for  the  coldest,  as  for  the  highest  and 
the  most  fervent;  no  one  ever  stayed  there  without 
breathing  an  atmosphere  of  happiness,  without  compre- 
hending a  tranquil  life  devoid  of  ambition,  relieved  of 
care.  Revery  is  in  the  air,  in  the  murmuring  flow  of 
waters ;  the  sands  speak,  they  are  sad  or  ga}-,  golden 
or  sullied  ;  all  is  in  motion  around  the  possessor  of  this 
spot,  motionless  amid  its  ever-blooming  flowers  and  its 
toothsome  fruits.  An  Englishman  gives  a  thousand 
francs  merely  to  live  six  months  in  that  humble  dwel- 
ling, and  he  binds  himself  to  gather  no  products ;  if  he 
wants  the  fruits,  he  pays  a  double  rent;  if  the  wine 
tempts  him,  he  doubles  it  again.  What,  then,  is  La 
Grenadiere  worth,  with  that  flight  of  steps,  the  sunken 
path,  the  triple  terrace,  the  two  acres  of  vineyard,  those 
balustrades,  those  roses,  the  portico,  its  pump,  the 
wealth  of  tangled  clematis  and  the  cosmopolitan  trees? 
Ofler  no  price.  La  Grenadiere  cannot  be  bought.  Sold 
once  in  1690  for  forty  thousand  francs,  and  left  with 
bitter  regret,  as  the  Arab  of  the  desert  abandons  a 
favorite  horse,  it  still  remains  in  the  same  family,  of 
which  it  is  the  pride,  the  patrimonial  jewel,  the  Regent 
diamond.  To  see  is  not  to  have,  saith  the  poet.  From 
these  terraces  you  see  three  valleys  of  Touraine  and  the 
cathedral  suspended  in  ether  like  a  delicate  filagree. 


310  La   Grenadiere. 

Can  you  pa3^  for  such  treasures?  Could  3'ou  buy  the 
health  you  will  recover  beneath  those  lindens? 

In  the  spring  of  one  of  the  finest  3'ears  of  the  Restora- 
tion, a  lady,  accompanied  by  a  maid  and  two  children, 
came  to  Tours  in  search  of  a  house.  She  saw  La 
Grenadiere  and  hired  it.  Perhaps  the  distance  that 
separated  it  from  the  town  decided  her  to  take  it.  The 
salon  was  her  bed-chamber ;  she  put  each  child  in  one 
of  the  rooms  on  the  upper  floor,  and  the  maid  slept  in 
a  little  chamber  above  the  kitchen.  The  dining-room 
became  the  living-room  of  the  little  family-.  The  lady 
furnished  the  house  very  simply,  but  with  taste  ;  there 
was  nothing  useless  and  nothing  that  conveyed  a  sense 
of  luxury.  The  furniture  was  of  walnut,  without  orna- 
ment. The  neatness,  and  the  harmony  of  the  interior 
with  the  exterior  made  the  charm  of  the  house. 

It  was  difficult  to  know  whether  Madame  Williamson 
(that  was  the  name  the  lady  gave)  belonged  to  the  rich 
bourgeoisie,  or  to  the  upper  nobility,  or  to  certain 
equivocal  classes  of  the  feminine  species.  Her  sim- 
plicity of  life  gave  grounds  for  contradictory  supposi- 
tions, though  her  manners  seemed  to  confirm  the  most 
favorable.  It  was,  therefore,  not  long  after  her  arrival 
at  Saint-Cyr  that  her  reserved  conduct  excited  the 
curiosity  of  idle  persons,  who  had  the  provincial  habit 
of  remarking  upon  everything  that  promised  to  enliven 
the  narrow  sphere  in  which  they  lived. 


La   Grenadiere,  311 

Madame  "Williamson  was  rather  tall,  slight  and  thin, 
but  delicately  made.  She  had  pretty  feet,  more  re- 
markable for  the  grace  with  which  they  were  joined  to 
the  ankles  than  for  their  narrowness,  —  a  vulgar  merit. 
Her  hands  were  handsome  when  gloved.  A  certain 
redness,  that  seemed  movable  and  rather  dark  in  tone, 
disfigured  her  white  skin,  which  was  naturally  fair  and 
rosy.  Premature  wrinkles  had  aged  a  brow  that  was 
fine  in  shape  and  crowned  with  beautiful  auburn  hair, 
always  braided  in  two  strands  and  wound  around  the 
head,  —  a  maidenly  fashion  which  became  her  melan- 
choly face.  Her  black  eyes,  sunken  in  dark  circles  and 
full  of  feverish  ardor,  assumed  a  calmness  that  seemed 
deceptive  ;  for  at  times,  if  she  forgot  the  expression  she 
imposed  upon  them,  they  revealed  some  secret  anguish. 
Her  oval  face  was  rather  long,  but  perhaps  In  other 
days  happiness  and  health  may  have  rounded  its  out- 
lines. A  deceptive  smile,  full  of  gentle  sadness,  was 
ever  on  her  pallid  lips,  but  the  eyes  grew  animated,  and 
the  smile  expressed  the  delights  of  maternal  love  when 
the  two  children,  by  whom  she  was  alwaj'^s  accompanied, 
looked  at  her  and  asked  those  idle  and  endless  questions 
which  have  their  meaning  to  a  mother's  heart. 

Her  walk  was  slow  and  dignified.  She  wore  but  one 
style  of  dress,  with  a  constancy  that  showed  a  deliberate 
intention  to  take  no  further  interest  in  personal  adorn- 
ment, and  to  forget  the  world,  by  which,  no  doubt,  she 


312  La  Grenadiere, 

wished  to  be  forgot.  Her  gown  was  black  and  very 
long,  fastened  round  the  waist  with  a  watered  ribbon, 
and  over  it,  in  guise  of  a  shawl,  was  a  cambric  kercliief 
with  a  broad  hem,  the  ends  passed  negligently  through 
her  belt.  Her  shoes  and  her  black  silk  stockings  be- 
trayed the  elegance  of  her  former  life,  and  completed 
the  conventional  mourning  that  she  always  wore.  Her 
bonnet,  always  of  the  same  English  shape,  was  gray  in 
color  and  covered  with  a  black  veil. 

She  seemed  very  weak  and  ill.  The  only  walk  she 
took  was  from  La  Grenadiere  to  the  bridge  of  Tours, 
where,  on  a  calm  evening  she  would  take  the  two 
children  to  breathe  the  cool  air  from  the  river  and 
admire  the  effects  of  the  setting  sun  upon  a  landscape 
as  vast  as  that  of  the  Bay  of  Naples  or  the  Lake  of 
Geneva.  During  the  time  she  lived  at  La  Grenadiere 
she  went  but  twice  to  Tours,  —  once  to  ask  the  principal 
of  the  college  to  direct  her  to  the  best  masters  of 
Latin,  mathematics,  and  drawing;  and  next  to  arrange 
with  the  persons  thus  designated  the  price  of  their  in- 
structions, and  the  hours  at  which  her  sons  could  take 
their  lessons.  But  it  sufficed  to  show  herself  once  or 
twice  a  week  on  the  bridge  in  the  evening,  to  rouse  the 
interest  of  nearly  all  the  inhabitants  of  the  town,  who 
made  it  their  habitual  promenade. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  harmless  spying  which  the 
dreary  leisure  and  uneasy  curiosity  of  provincial  towns 


La  Grenadiere,  313 

forces  upon  their  leading  societies,  no  real  information 
as  to  the  unknown  lad3',  her  rank,  her  fortune,  or 
even  her  present  condition,  was  obtained.  The  owner 
of  La  Grenadiere  did,  however,  tell  some  of  his  friends 
the  name  (and  it  was  no  doubt  a  true  one)  under  which 
she  had  taken  the  lease.  She  gave  it  as  "Augusta  Wil- 
liamson, Countess  of  Brandon."  The  name  was  doubt- 
less that  of  her  husband.  The  later  events  of  her 
historj^  confirmed  this  statement ;  but  it  was  never 
made  public  bej-ond  the  little  world  of  merchants 
frequented  by  the  owner. 

So  Madame  Williamson  continued  a  m3'8tery  to  the 
leading  societ}*  of  Tours,  and  all  that  she  allowed  them 
to  discover  was  her  simple  manners,  delightfully  natu- 
ral, her  personal  distinction,  and  the  tones  of  an  an- 
gelic voice.  The  complete  solitude  in  which  she  lived, 
her  melancholy,  and  her  beauty  so  cruelly  obscured 
and  even  faded,  charmed  the  minds  of  a  few  young 
men,  who  fell  in  love  with  her.  But  the  more  sincere 
they  were,  the  less  bold  they  became ;  moreover,  she 
was  so  imposing  that  it  was  difficult  to  address  her. 
When  one  or  two,  more  courageous  than  the  rest, 
wrote  to  her,  Madame  Williamson  put  their  letters 
unopened  into  the  fire.  She  seemed  to  have  come  to 
this  enchanting  retreat  to  abandon  herself  wholly  to 
the  pleasure  of  living  there.  The  three  masters  who 
were  admitted  to  La  Grenadiere  spoke  with  respectful 


314  La   Grenadiers, 

admiration   of  the   close    and   cloudless    union  which 
bound  the  children  and  the  mother  in  one. 

The  children  also  excited  a  great  deal  of  interest, 
and  no  mother  ever  looked  at  them  without  envy. 
Both  resembled  Madame  WilliamsoUj  who  was  really 
their  mother.  Each  had  a  bright,  transparent  com- 
plexion and  high  color,  clear,  limpid  eyes,  long  eye- 
lashes, and  the  purity  of  outline  which  gives  such 
brilliancy  to  the  beauties  of  childhood.  The  eldest, 
named  Louis-Gaston,  had  black  hair,  and  a  brave, 
intrepid  eye.  Everything  about  him  denoted  robust 
health,  just  as  his  broad,  high  forehead,  intelligently 
rounded,  foretold  an  energetic  manhood.  He  was  brisk 
and  agile  in  his  movements,  a  strapping  lad,  with 
nothing  assuming  about  him,  not  easily  surprised,  and 
seeming  to  reflect  on  all  he  saw.  His  brother,  named 
Marie-Gaston,  was  very  fair,  though  a  few  locks  of 
his  hair  were  beginning  to  show  the  auburn  color 
of  his  mother's.  He  had  also  the  slender  figure,  the 
delicate  features,  and  the  winning  grace  so  attractive 
in  Madame  Williamson.  He  seemed  sicklj-,  his  gray 
eyes  had  a  gentle  look,  his  cheeks  were  pale  ;  there 
was  a  good  deal  of  the  woman  about  hira.  His  mother 
still  kept  him  to  embroidered  collars,  long  curls,  and 
those  pretty  jackets  with  frogged  fastenings  which 
are  worn  with  so  pleasing  an  effect,  and  which  betray 
a  feminine  love  of  dress. 


La  Grenadiere.  315 

This  dainty  attire  contrasted  with  the  plain  jacket 
of  the  elder  brother,  over  which  the  plain  linen  collar 
of  his  shirt  was  turned.  The  trousers,  boots,  and 
color  of  the  clothes  were  the  same  in  the  two  brothers, 
and  proclaimed  their  relationship  as  much  as  did  their 
physical  likeness.  Seeing  them  together,  it  was  im- 
possible not  to  be  struck  with  the  care  which  Louis 
took  of  Marie.  The  look  he  gave  him  was  paternal ; 
and  Marie,  in  spite  of  his  childlike  heedlessness, 
seemed  full  of  gratitude  to  his  brother.  These  two 
little  flowers,  scarcely  apart  on  the  same  twig,  were 
shaken  by  the  same  breezes  and  warmed  by  the  same 
sun-ray;  but  while  one  was  vigorous  and  rosy,  the 
other  was  half-etiolated.  A  word,  a  look,  an  inflection 
of  the  voice  suflSced  to  catch  their  attention,  to  make 
them  turn  their  heads  and  listen,  hear  an  order,  a 
request,  a  suggestion,  and  obey.  Madame  Williamson 
made  them  understand  her  wishes  and  her  will  as  though 
there  were  but  one  thought  among  them. 

When  they  were  running  or  playing  before  her  in 
their  walks,  gathering  a  flower,  examining  an  insect, 
her  eyes  rested  upon  them  with  such  deep  and  tender 
emotion  that  the  most  indifferent  observers  were 
touched ;  sometimes  they  even  stopped  to  watch  the 
smiling  children,  and  saluted  the  mother  with  a 
friendly  glance.  Who,  indeed,  would  not  have  ad- 
mired   the    exquisite    nicety  of   their   garments,   the 


316  La   Grenadiere, 

pretty  tones  of  their  voices,  the  grace  of  their  move- 
ments, their  happy  faces,  and  that  instinctive  nobility 
which  told  of  careful  training  from  their  cradles? 
Those  children  seemed  never  to  have  wept  or  screamed. 
The  mother  had  an  almost  electric  sense  of  their  wishes 
and  their  pains,  and  she  calmed  them  or  forestalled 
them  ceaselessl}'.  She  seemed  to  dread  a  plaint  from 
her  children  more  than  eternal  condemnation  for  her« 
self.  All  things  in  and  about  them  were  to  her  honor ; 
and  the  picture  of  their  triple  life,  seeming  one  and 
the  same  life,  gave  birth  to  vague,  alluring  visions  of 
the  joys  we  dream  of  tasting  in  a  better  world. 

The  domestic  life  of  these  harmonious  beings  was  in 
keeping  with  the  ideas  their  outward  appearance  con- 
veyed ;  it  was  orderly,  regular,  and  simple,  as  became 
a  home  where  children  were  educated.  The  two  boys 
rose  early,  by  daybreak,  and  said  a  short  prayer,  taught 
them  in  infancy,  —  true  words  said  for  seven  years  on 
their  mother's  bed,  begun  and  ended  by  two  kisses. 
Then  the  brothers,  trained  to  that  minute  care  of  the 
person  so  essential  to  health  of  body  and  purity  of 
soul,  dressed  themselves  as  carefully  as  a  pretty  woman 
might  have  done.  They  neglected  nothing,  so  fearful 
were  they  of  a  word  of  blame,  however  tenderly  their 
mother  might  utter  it,  —  as,  for  instance,  when  she  said 
at  breakfast  one  morning,  "  My  dear  angels,  how  did 
you  get  your  nails  so  black  already?" 


La  Grenadiere.  317 

After  dressing,  the  pair  would  go  down  into  the 
garden  and  shake  off  the  heaviness  of  the  night  in  its 
dewy  ft-eshness,  while  waiting  for  the  servant  to  pnt  in 
order  the  dining-room,  where  thej"  studied  their  lessons 
till  their  mother  woke.  But  from  time  to  time  the}- 
peeped  and  listened  to  find  out  if  she  were  awake, 
though  forbidden  to  enter  the  room  before  a  given 
hour ;  and  this  daily  irruption,  made  in  defiance  of  a 
compact,  was  a  delightful  moment  both  to  them  and  to 
their  mother.  Marie  would  jump  upon  the  bed  and 
throw  his  arms  about  his  idol,  while  Louis,  kneeling 
beside  the  pillow,  held  her  hand.  Then  followed  tender 
inquiries  like  those  of  a  lover,  angelic  laughter,  caresses 
that  were  passionate  and  pure,  eloquent  silence,  words 
half- uttered,  childish  stories  interrupted  by  kisses,  begun 
again,  always  listened  to,  seldom  finished. 

*'  Hav^e  you  studied  your  lessons?"  the  mother  would 
Bay,  in  a  gentle  voice,  ready  to  pity  idleness  as  a  mis- 
fortune, but  readier  still  with  a  tearful  glance  for  the 
one  who  could  say  he  had  done  bis  best.  She  knew 
those  children  desired  onlj'  to  satisfj^  her ;  the}^  knew 
she  lived  only  for  them,  —  that  she  led  them  by  the 
wisdom  of  love  and  gave  them  all  her  thoughts  and  all 
her  time.  A  marvellous  instinct,  which  is  neither  rea- 
son nor  egotism,  which  we  may  perhaps  call  sentiment 
in  its  first  sincerity,  teaches  children  whether  they  are 
or  are  not,  the  object  of  exclusive  care,  and  whether 


318  La   Grenadiere. 

others  find  happiness  in  caring  for  them.  Do  3'oa 
truly  love  them  ?  then  the  dear  creatures,  all  frankness 
and  all  justice,  are  delightfuUj-  grateful.  They  love 
passionately  and  jealously ;  they  possess  the  sweetest 
delicacy,  they  can  find  the  tenderest  words  ;  they  confide 
to  you,  they  trust  to  you  in  all  things.  Perhaps  there 
are  no  bad  children  without  bad  mothers,  for  the 
afl'ection  children  feel  is  always  in  reply  to  that  they 
receive,  to  the  first  caress  given  to  them,  to  the  first 
words  the}^  have  heard,  to  the  first  looks  from  which 
they  have  sought  for  love  and  life.  At  that  period  all 
to  them  is  attraction  or  repulsion.  God  has  put  children 
in  the  womb  of  the  mother  to  teach  her  that  she  must 
bear  them  long. 

And  yet  we  find  some  mothers  cruelly  misunderstood 
by  their  children ;  we  see  sublime  maternal  tenderness 
constantlj^  wounded  b}^  horrible  ingratitude  and  neg- 
lect, —  showing  how  diflScult  it  is  to  lay  down  absolute 
principles  in  matters  of  feeling. 

In  the  heart  of  this  mother  and  in  those  of  her  sons 
no  one  of  the  thousand  ties  which  could  attach  them  to 
one  another  was  missing.  Alone  on  earth  they  lived  a 
united  life  and  understood  each  other.  When  Madame 
Williamson  was  silent  the  boys  said  nothing,  respectful 
even  to  the  thoughts  they  could  not  share.  But  the 
elder,  gifted  with  a  mind  that  was  already  strong,  was 
never  satisfied  with  his  mother's  assurances  that  her 


La  Grenadiere,  319 

health  was  good;  he  studied  her  face  with  silent  un- 
easiness, unaware  of  danger,  yet  foreboding  it  when  he 
noticed  the  purple  tints  round  the  sunken  eyes  and 
saw  that  the  hollows  deepened  and  the  red  patches  on 
the  face  grew  more  inflamed.  Full  of  true  perception, 
when  he  thought  that  his  brother's  games  were  begin- 
ning to  tire  her  he  would  say,  **  Come,  Marie,  let's  go 
and  breakfast ;  I  'm  hungry." 

But  when  he  reached  the  door  he  would  turn  back  to 
catch  the  expression  on  his  mother's  face,  which  always 
wore  a  smile  for  him,  though  sometimes  tears  would  start 
from  her  eyes  as  a  gesture  of  her  boy  revealed  his  exqui- 
site feeling,  his  precocious  comprehension  of  her  sorrow. 

The  mother  was  always  present  at  the  lessons  which 
took  place  from  ten  to  three  o'clock,  interrupted  at 
midday  by  the  second  breakfast,  generally  taken  in  the 
garden  pavilion.  After  this  meal  came  a  pla3^-hour, 
when  the  happy  mother,  the  unhappy  woman,  lay  on  a 
sofa  in  the  pavilion,  whence  she  could  see  that  sweet 
Touraine,  incessantly  changing,  ceaselessly  rejuvenated 
by  the  varying  accidents  of  light  and  sky  and  season. 

The  boys  ran  about  the  place,  climbing  the  terraces, 
chasing  the  lizards,  themselves  as  agile ;  thej-  watched 
the  seeds,  and  studied  the  insects  and  the  flowers,  run- 
ning constantl}'  to  their  mother  with  questions.  Children 
need  no  pla3'things  in  the  country ;  the  things  about 
them  are  amusement  and  occupation  enough. 


320  Jja   Grenadiire. 

During  the  lessons  Madame  Williamson  sat  in  the 
room  with  her  work ;  she  was  silent  and  never  looked 
at  either  masters  or  pupils,  but  she  listened  attentively 
to  catch  the  meaning  of  the  words  and  know  if  Louis 
were  understanding  them,  and  whether  his  mind  were 
acquiring  force.  If  he  interrupted  his  master  with  a 
question,  that  was  surely  a  sign  of  progress ;  then  the 
mother's  eyes  would  brighten,  she  smiled,  and  gave  the 
bo3^  a  look  full  of  hope.  She  exacted  very  little  of 
Marie ;  all  her  anxiety  was  for  the  elder,  to  whom  she 
showed  a  sort  of  respect,  employing  her  womanly  and 
motherly  tact  to  lift  his  soul  and  give  him  a  high  sense 
of  what  he  should  become.  Behind  this  course  was  a 
hidden  purpose  which  the  child  was  one  day  to  compre- 
hend —  and  he  did  comprehend  it.  After  each  lesson 
she  inquired  carefully  of  the  masters  what  they  thought 
of  Louis's  progress.  She  was  so  kindly  and  so  winning 
that  the  teachers  told  her  the  truth  and  showed  her  how- 
to  make  Louis  work  in  directions  where  they  thought 
him  wanting. 

Such  was  their  hfe,  uniform  but  full,  —  a  life  where 
work  and  plaj^,  cheerfully  mingled,  left  no  opening  for 
ennui.  Discouragement  or  anger  was  impossible,  the 
mother's  boundless  love  made  all  things  easy.  She 
had  taught  her  sons  discretion  b3^  refusing  nothing  to 
them ;  courage,  by  awarding  them  just  praise ;  resig- 
nation, b}^  showing  them  its  necessity  under  all  cir- 


La  Grenadiire,  821 

cnmstances.  She  developed  and  strengthened  the 
angelic  nature  within  them  with  the  care  of  a  guard- 
ian angel.  Sometimes  a  few  tears  would  moisten  her 
ejes,  when,  watching  them  at  play,  the  thought  came 
that  the}^  had  never  caused  her  a  moment's  grief. 
She  spent  delightful  hours  lying  on  her  rural  couch, 
enjoying  the  fine  weather,  the  broad  sheet  of  water, 
the  picturesque  country,  the  voices  of  her  children, 
their  merry  laughs  rippling  into  fresh  laughter,  and 
their  little  disputes,  which  only  evidenced  their  union, 
and  Louis's  fatherly  care  of  Marie,  and  the  love  of  both 
for  her. 

They  all  spoke  French  and  English  equally  well,  and 
the  mother  used  both  languages  in  conversing  with  her 
boys.  She  ruled  them  by  kindness,  —  hiding  nothing, 
but  explaining  all.  She  allowed  no  false  idea  to  gain 
a  lodgment  in  their  minds,  and  no  mistaken  principle 
to  enter  their  hearts.  When  Louis  wished  to  read  she 
gave  him  books  that  were  interesting  and  yet  sound, 
true  to  the  facts  of  life,  —  lives  of  famous  sailors,  bio- 
graphies of  great  men,  illustrious  captains ;  finding  in 
such  books  the  occasions  to  explain  to  him  the  world 
and  life,  to  show  him  the  means  by  which  obscure 
persons  who  had  greatness  within  their  souls,  coming 
from  the  lower  walks  of  life  and  without  friends,  had 
succeeded  in  rising  to  noble  destinies. 

Such  lessons  she  gave  him  in  the  evening,  when 
21 


322  La  Grenadiere. 

Marie,  tired  with  his  play,  was  sleeping  on  her  knees 
in  the  cool  silence  of  a  beauteous  night,  when  the 
Loire  reflected  the  heavens.  But  they  increased  her 
secret  sadness,  and  ended  often  in  leaving  her  ex- 
hausted, thoughtful,  and  with  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

"Mother,  why  do  you  crj'?"  asked  Louis,  one  rich 
June  evening,  just  as  the  half- tints  of  a  softly-lighted 
night  were  succeeding  a  warm  day. 

"My  son,"  she  answered,  winding  her  arm  around 
the  neck  of  the  bo}^  whose  concealed  emotion  touched 
her  deepty,  "  because  the  hard  lot  of  Jameray  Duval, 
who  reached  distinction  without  help,  is  the  fate  I  have 
brought  on  you  and  your  brother.  Soon,  my  dear  child, 
you  will  be  alone  in  the  world,  with  no  one  to  lean 
on,  no  protector.  I  am  forced  to  leave  j^ou,  still  mere 
children ;  and  yet  I  think  that  you,  my  Louis,  know 
enough,  and  are  strong  enough  to  be  a  guide  to  Marie. 
I  love  you  too  well  not  to  suffer  from  such  thoughts. 
God  grant  you  may  not  some  day  curse  me." 

"  Why  should  I  curse  you,  mother?" 

**  Some  day,  my  child,"  she  answered,  kissing  his 
brow,  "you  will  realize  that  I  have  done  you  wrong. 
I  abandon  you,  here,  without  means,  without  fortune, 
without "  —  she  hesitated  —  * '  without  a  father,"  she 
added. 

Tears  choked  her  voice ;  she  gently  pushed  her  son 
away  from  her,  and  he,  understanding  by  a  sort  of 


La  Qrenadiere,  323 

intuition  that  she  wished  to  be  alone,  carried  the 
sleeping  Marie  away  with  him.  An  hour  later,  when 
his  brother  was  in  bed,  Louis  returned  with  cautious 
steps  to  the  pavilion  where  his  mother  was  still  lying. 
He  heard  her  call,  in  a  voice  that  sounded  sweetly  on 
his  ear,  — 

'*  Louis,  come  !  " 

The  boy  flung  himself  into  his  mother's  arms,  and 
they  kissed  each  other  almost  convulsively. 

*'  Dearest,"  he  said,  for  he  often  gave  her  that  name, 
finding  even  that  too  feeble  to  express  his  tenderness, 
**  dearest,  why  do  you  fear  that  yon  will  die?  " 

''  I  am  very  ill,  my  poor  loved  angel,"  she  said.  **  I 
grow  weaker  daily;  my  disease  is  incurable,  and  I 
know  it." 

"  What  disease  is  it?" 

"  I  must  forget ;  and  you,  you  must  never  know  the 
cause  of  my  death." 

The  child  was  silent  for  a  moment,  glancing  furtively 
at  his  mother  whose  e3'es  were  raised  to  heaven,  watch- 
ing the  clouds.  Moment  of  tender  melancholy  !  Louis 
did  not  believe  in  his  mother's  approaching  death,  but 
he  felt  her  griefs  without  understanding  them.  He 
respected  her  long  revery.  Were  he  less  a  child  he 
might  have  read  upon  that  sacred  face  thoughts  of 
repentance  mingled  with  happ}'  memories,  —  the  whole 
of  a  woman's  life  ;  a  careless  girlhood,  a  cold  marriage, 


824  La  Grenadiere. 

a  terrible  passion,  flowers  born  of  a  tempest,  hurled  by 
the  lightning  to  the  depths  of  that  abyss  from  which 
there  is  no  return. 

"  My  precious  mother,"  said  Louis  at  last,  "  why  do 
you  hide  your  sufferings  from  me  ?  " 

*'My  son,"  she  answered,  "we  should  always  hide 
our  troubles  from  the  eyes  of  strangers,  and  show  to 
them  a  smiling  face ;  we  should  never  speak  to  others 
of  ourselves,  but  think  only  of  them.  Those  things,  if 
we  practise  them  in  our  homes,  will  make  others  happy. 
Some  day  you,  too,  will  suffer  deepl}^  Then  remember 
your  poor  mother,  who  died  before  your  ej^es  hiding 
her  griefs,  and  smiling  for  you  ;  it  will  give  you  courage 
to  bear  the  woes  of  life." 

Smothering  her  feelings,  she  tried  to  show  her  boy 
the  mechanism  of  existence,  the  just  value,  the  ground- 
work, and  the  stability  of  wealth ;  the  power  of  social 
relations ;  the  honorable  means  of  amassing  money  for 
the  wants  of  life  ;  and  the  necessity  of  education.  Then 
she  revealed  to  him  one  cause  of  her  sadness  and  her 
tears,  and  told  him  that  on  the  morrow  of  her  death  he 
and  Marie  would  be  destitute,  possessing  only  a  trifling 
sum  of  money,  and  with  no  other  protector  than  God. 

"  What  haste  I  must  make  to  learn  !  "  cried  the  boy, 
glancing  at  his  mother,  with  a  deep,  yet  plaintive  look. 

''Ah,  I  am  happy ! "  she  exclaimed,  covering  her 
Bon  with  tears  and  kisses.     ''He  has  understood  me! 


La  Grenadiere.  325 

Louis,"  she  added,  ''3'ou  will  be  your  brother's  guard- 
ian, will  you  not?  you  promise  me?  You  are  no  longer 
a  child/' 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  *'I  promise;  but  you  will  not 
die  yet?     Say  3'ou  will  not !  " 

"Poor  children!"  she  said,  "my  love  for  3'ou  de- 
tains me  ;  and  this  country  is  so  beautiful,  the  air  is  so 
reviving,  perhaps  —  " 

"I  shall  love  Touraine  more  than  ever  now,"  said 
the  lad,  with  emotion. 

From  that  day  Madame  Williamson,  foreseeing  her 
end,  talked  to  her  eldest  son  of  his  future  lot.  Louis, 
who  had  now  completed  his  fourteenth  year,  became 
more  thoughtful,  applied  himself  better,  and  cared  less 
for  play.  Whether  it  were  that  he  persuaded  Marie  to 
read,  instead  of  caring  only  for  games  of  pla}',  it  is  certain 
that  the  two  boys  made  much  less  noise  in  the  sunken 
paths  and  in  the  terraces  and  gardens  of  La  Grenadiere. 
They  conformed  their  life  to  the  sad  condition  of  their 
mother,  whose  face  grew  paler  day  by  day,  with  yellow 
tints,  the  lines  deepening  night  after  night. 

In  the  month  of  August,  six  months  after  the  arrival 
of  the  little  family,  all  was  changed  at  La  Grenadiere. 
The  pretty  house,  once  so  gay,  so  lively,  had  grown 
sad  and  silent,  and  its  occupants  seldom  left  the  prem- 
ises. Madame  Williamson  had  scarcely  strength  to 
walk  to  the  bridge.     Louis,  whose  imagination  had 


326  La  Grenadiere. 

suddenly  deve/oped,  and  who  had  now  identified  himself, 
as  it  were,  with  his  mother,  guessing  her  weariness, 
invented  pretexts  to  avoid  a  walk  which  he  felt  was  too 
long  for  her.  Happy  couples  passing  along  the  road  to 
Saint-CjT  and  the  groups  of  pedestrians  below  upon  the 
levee  saw,  in  the  warm  evenings,  the  pale,  emaciated 
woman  in  deep  mourning,  near  her  end  yet  still  brilliant, 
pacing  like  a  phantom  along  the  terraces.  Great  suffer- 
ings are  divined.  Even  the  cottage  of  the  vine- dresser 
became  silent.  Sometimes  the  peasant  and  his  wife 
and  children  were  grouped  about  their  door,  Fanny,  the 
old  English  servant,  would  be  washing  near  the  well, 
Madame  Williamson  and  her  boys  sitting  in  the  pavilion, 
and  yet  no  sound  was  heard  in  the  once  gay  gardens, 
and  all  eyes  turned,  when  the  dying  woman  did  not  see 
them,  to  contemplate  her.  She  was  so  good,  so  thought- 
ful for  others,  so  worthy  of  respect  from  all  who  ap- 
proached her! 

Since  the  beginning  of  the  autumn,  which  is  always 
fine  and  brilliant  in  Toui'aine,  and  which,  with  its  bene- 
ficent influences,  its  fruits,  its  grapes,  did  somewhat 
prolong  the  mother's  life  beyond  the  natural  term  of 
her  hidden  malady,  she  had  thought  of  nothing  but  her 
children,  and  rejoiced  over  every  hour  she  had  them 
with  her  as  though  it  were  her  last. 

From  the  month  of  June  to  the  month  of  September 
Louis  studied  at  night  without  his  mother's  knowledge 


La   Grrenadiere,  327 

and  made  enormous  progress ;  he  was  already  in  the 
equations  of  the  second  degree  in  algebra,  had  learned 
descriptive  geometry,  and  drew  admirably  well.  He 
was,  in  fact,  prepared  to  pass  an  entrance  examination 
to  the  ^ficole  Poly  technique.  Occasionally  in  the  even- 
ings he  went  to  walk  on  the  bridge  of  Tours,  where  he 
had  met  a  lieutenant  of  the  navy  on  half-pay ;  the 
manly  face,  the  decorated  breast,  the  hearty  bearing  of 
this  sailor  of  the  Empire,  affected  his  imagination.  The 
lieutenant,  on  the  other  hand,  took  a  fancy  to  the  lad 
whose  eyes  sparkled  with  energy.  Louis,  eager  for 
military  tales  and  liking  to  ask  questions,  walked  about 
with  the  old  salt  and  listened  to  him.  The  lieutenant 
had  a  friend  and  companion  in  an  infantry  colonel; 
young  Gaston  could  therefore  hear  of  the  two  lives, 
military  and  naval,  life  in  camp  and  life  on  seaboard, 
and  he  questioned  the  two  officers  incessantly. 

After  a  time,  entering  into  their  hard  lot  and  their 
rough  experience,  he  suddenly  asked  his  mother  for 
permission  to  roam  about  the  canton  to  amuse  himself. 
As  the  astonished  masters  had  told  Madame  Williamson 
that  her  son  was  studying  too  hard,  she  acceded  to  his 
request  with  extreme  pleasure.  The  boy  took  immense 
walks.  Wishing  to  harden  himself  to  fatigue  he  climbed 
the  highest  trees  with  agility,  he  learned  to  swim,  and 
he  sat  up  working  at  night.  He  was  no  longer  the 
same  child ;  he  was  a  young  man,  on  whose  face  the  sun 


&28  La  Grenadiire, 

had  cast  its  brown  tones,  bringing  out  the  lines  of  an 
already  deep  purpose. 

The  month  of  October  came,  and  Madame  Williamson 
could  rise  only  at  midday,  when  the  sun-raj's,  reflected 
from  the  Loire  and  concentrated  on  the  terraces,  pro- 
duced the  same  equable  warmth  at  La  Grenadiere  that 
prevails  on  warm,  moist  days  around  the  Bay  of  Naples, 
«^  a  circumstance  which  leads  physicians  to  recommend 
Touraine.  On  such  days  she  would  sit  beneath  an 
evergreen,  and  her  sons  no  longer  left  her.  Studies 
ceased,  the  masters  were  dismissed.  Children  and 
mother  wished  to  live  in  one  another's  hearts,  without  a 
care,  without  distractions  from  the  outside.  No  tears 
were  shed,  no  happy  laughter  heard.  The  elder,  lying 
on  the  grass  beside  his  mother,  was  like  a  lover  at  her 
feet,  which  he  sometimes  kissed.  Marie,  restless  and 
uneasy,  gathered  flowers,  which  he  brought  to  her  with 
a  sad  air,  rising  on  tiptoe  to  take  from  her  lips  the  kiss 
of  a  young  girl.  That  pallid  woman  with  the  large 
black  eyes,  lying  exhausted,  slow  in  all  her  motions, 
making  no  plaint,  smiling  at  her  two  children  so  full  of 
health,  so  living,  was  indeed  a  touching  spectacle  amid 
the  melancholy  glories  of  autumn,  with  its  yellowing 
leaves,  its  half-bared  trees,  the  softened  light  of  the  sun 
and  the  white  clouds  of  a  Touraine  sky. 

The  day  came  when  Madame  Williamson  was  ordered 
by  the  doctor  not  to  leave  her  room.     Daily  it  was 


'^^':\y^mm^mt''\  '.-.^'^'1!!*^ 


Ti..*«i<  ;-"t^-w'' 


sit  beneath  an  evergreen, 
longer  left  her,'* 


■riadi 


>r  canoe,  and  Madame  Williams' 
m  the  Bti 


ItheBa 


830  La   Crrenadiere, 

*'  Father  and  mother  unknown !  "  she  cried,  casting 
an  agonized  look  upon  them.  *'Poor  children!  what 
will  become  of  you?  And  when  you  are  men,  what 
stern  account  will  you  not  demand  of  me  for  my  life 
and  yours?" 

She  pushed  her  children  from  her,  placed  both  elbows 
on  the  balustrade,  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  re- 
mained for  a  few  moments  alone  with  her  soul,  fearing 
to  be  seen.  When  she  roused  herself  from  her  grief 
she  saw  Louis  and  Marie  kneeling  beside  her  Hke  two 
angels ;  they  watched  her  looks  and  both  smiled  at 
her. 

*'  Could  I  but  take  those  smiles  with  me  ! "  she  said, 
drying  her  e3'es. 

She  returned  to  the  house  and  went  to  her  bed,  to 
leave  it  no  more  until  they  placed  her  in  her  coffin. 

Eight  days  went  by,  each  day  like  the  rest.  The  old 
waiting-woman  and  Louis  took  turns  to  watch  that  bed 
at  night,  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  patient.  It  was  the 
same  drama,  profoundly  tragic,  which  is  played  at  all 
hours  and  in  all  families  where  they  dread  that  every 
breath  may  be  the  last  of  some  adored  member.  On 
the  fifth  day  of  this  fatal  week  the  doctor  proscribed 
flowers.  One  by  one  the  illusions  of  life  were  taken 
from  her. 

After  that  day  Louis  and  Marie  found  fire  beneath 
their  lips  when  they  kissed  their  mother's  brow.     At 


La   Grenadiire,  331 

last,  on  the  Saturday  night,  she  could  bear  no  noise,  and 
her  room  was  left  in  disorder.  That  necessary  neglect 
marked  the  beginning  of  the  death  of  this  woman,  once 
so  fastidious,  so  enamoured  of  elegance.  Louis  no 
longer  left  her  even  for  a  moment. 

During  the  night  of  Sunday,  in  the  midst  of  deepest 
silence,  Louis,  who  thought  her  dozing,  saw  by  the 
light  of  the  lamp  a  white,  moist  hand  put  back  the 
curtain. 

**My  son,"  she  said. 

The  tones  of  the  dying  woman  were  so  solemn  that 
their  power,  proceeding  from  her  troubled  soul,  reacted 
violently  on  her  child ;  he  felt  a  burning  heat  in  the 
marrow  of  his  bones. 

''What  is  it,  mother?" 

*'  Listen  to  me.  To-morrow  all  will  be  over.  We 
shall  see  each  other  no  more.  To-morrow  3'ou  will  be 
a  man,  my  child.  I  am  obliged  to  make  certain  ar- 
rangements which  must  remain  a  secret  between  you 
and  me.  Take  the  key  of  my  little  table.  You  have  it? 
Open  the  drawer.  You  will  find  on  the  left  two  sealed 
papers.   On  one  is  marked  Louis,  on  the  other,  Marie." 

"  I  have  them,  mother." 

"  My  darling  son,  they  are  the  legal  records  of  your 
birth,  of  great  importance  to  you.  Give  them  to  my 
poor  old  Fanny,  who  will  take  care  of  them  for  3'ou,  and 
return  them  to  you  when  needed.    Now,"  she  continued, 


832  La  Grenadiire, 

*'  look  again  in  the  same  place  and  see  if  there  is  not 
another  paper  on  which  I  have  written  a  few  lines?" 

*'Yes,  mother." 

And  Louis  began  to  read :  "  Marie  Augusta  William- 
son, born  at  —  " 

"  That  will  do,"  she  said  quickly,  "  Don't  go  on.  My 
son,  when  I  am  dead,  give  that  paper  also  to  Fanny  and 
tell  her  to  take  it  to  the  mayor's  office  at  Saint-Cyr, 
where  they  will  need  it  to  draw  up. the  record  of  my 
death.  Now  bring  what  you  require  to  write  a  letter 
at  my  dictation." 

When  she  saw  that  her  son  was  ready  and  that  he 
turned  to  her  as  if  to  listen,  she  said,  in  a  calm  voice, 
dictating:  "Sir,  your  wife.  Lady  Brandon,  died  at 
Saint^Cyr,  near  Tours,  department  of  the  Indre-et-Loire. 
She  forgave  you.     Sign  it  —  " 

She  stopped,  hesitating  and  agitated. 

"  Do  you  feel  worse?  "  asked  Louis. 

'*  Sign  it,  '  Louis  Gaston.' " 

She  sighed,  then  continued:  "Seal  the  letter  and 
direct  it  to  '  The  Earl  of  Brandon,  Brandon  Square, 
Hyde  Park,  London,  England.'  Have  you  written  it? 
Very  good,"  she  said.  "  On  the  day  of  my  death  jou. 
must  mail  that  letter  from  Tours.  Now,"  she  continued, 
after  a  pause,  "  bring  my  little  pocket-book  —  3'ou  know 
it —  and  come  close  to  me,  dear  child.  In  it,"  she  said, 
when  Louis  had  returned  to  her,  ' '  are  twelve  thousand 


La  Grenadiere,  333 

francs.  They  are  riglitfully  yours,  alas !  You  would 
have  had  far  more  had  your  father  — " 

*'  My  father !  "  exclaimed  the  lad,  "  where  is  he?" 

"  Dead,"  she  replied,  laying  a  finger  on  her  lips,  — 
"dead  to  save  my  honor  and  my  life." 

She  raised  her  eyes  to  heaven  ;  she  would  have  wept 
had  she  still  had  tears  for  sorrows  '*  Louis,"  she  said, 
*'  swear  to  me  on  this  pillow  that  you  will  forget  all  that 
you  have  written,  and  all  that  I  have  said  to  you." 

"Yes  mother." 

**  Kiss  me,  dear  angel." 

She  made  a  long  pause  as  if  to  gather  courage  from 
God,  and  to  limit  her  words  to  the  strength  that  was 
left  to  her. 

"  Listen,"  she  said  at  last.  *'  These  twelve  thousand 
francs  are  your  whole  fortune;  you  must  keep  them 
npon  your  person,  because  when  I  am  dead,  the  legal 
authorities  will  come  here  and  put  seals  on  everything. 
Nothing  will  belong  to  you,  not  even  your  mother. 
Poor  orphans!  all  3'ou  can  do  is  to  go  away  —  God 
knows  where.  I  have  provided  for  Fanny;  she  will 
have  three  hundred  francs  a  year  and  stay  in  Tours. 
But  what  will  j'ou  do  with  3^ourself  and  3'our  brother  ?  " 

She  raised  herself  in  the  bed  and  looked  at  the  brave 
boy,  who,  with  great  drops  on  his  forehead,  pale  from 
emotion,  his  eyes  half-veiled  in  tears,  stood  erect 
before  her. 


334  La   Grenadiere. 

"Mother,"  he  replied  in  a  deep  voice,  "I  have 
thought  of  it.  I  shall  take  Marie  to  the  college  of 
Tours.  1  shall  give  ten  thousand  francs  to  old  Fanny 
and  tell  her  to  put  them  in  safety,  and  to  watch  over  ni}^ 
brother.  Then,  with  the  rest,  I  will  go  to  Brest,  and 
enter  the  navy  as  an  apprentice.  While  Marie  is  get- 
ting his  education  I  shall  be  promoted  lieutenant. 
Mother,  die  easy ;  I  shall  be  rich ;  I  will  put  our  boy 
into  the  l^cole  Polytechnique,  and  he  shall  follow  his 
bent." 

A  flash  of  joy  came  from  the  half-quenched  eyes  of 
the  mother ;  two  tears  rolled  down  her  burning  cheeks  ; 
then  a  great  sigh  escaped  her  lips.  She  barely  escaped 
dying  at  that  moment  from  the  joy  of  finding  the  soul 
of  the  father  in  that  of  her  son,  now  suddenly  trans- 
formed into  a  man. 

"Angel  from  heaven!"  she  said,  weeping,  "you 
have  healed  my  sorrows  with  those  words.  Ah !  I  can 
die  now.  He  is  my  son,"  she  added;  "  I  have  made, 
I  have  trained,  a  man." 

She  raised  her  hands  in  the  air  and  clasped  them,  as 
if  to  express  a  boundless  joj'^ ;  then  she  lay  back  on  the 
pillows. 

"  Mother,  you  are  turning  white,"  cried  the  boy. 

"  Fetch  a  priest,"  she  answered,  in  a  dying  voice. 

Louis  woke  old  Fanny,  who  ran  in  terror  to  the 
parsonage  of  Saint-Cyr. 


La   Grenadiere.  335 

Earlj'  in  the  morning  Madame  Williamson  received 
the  sacraments  in  presence  of  her  children,  with  old 
Fann}^  and  the  family  of  the  vine-dresser,  simple  folk, 
now  part  of  the  family,  kneeling  round  her.  The  silver 
cross  borne  by  a  humble  choir  boy,  a  village  choir  boy ! 
was  held  before  the  bed ;  an  old  priest  administered 
the  viaticum  to  the  dying  mother.  The  viaticum !  sub- 
lime word,  idea  more  sublime  than  the  word,  which  the 
apostolic  religion  of  the  Roman  Church  alone  emploj's. 

''This  woman  has  suffered  much,"  said  the  curate 
in  his  simple  language. 

Madame  Williamson  heard  no  longer ;  but  her  eyes 
remained  fastened  on  her  children.  All  present,  in 
mortal  terror,  listened  in  the  deep  silence  to  the 
breathing  of  the  dying  woman  as  it  slackened  and 
grew  slower.  At  intervals,  a  deep  sigh  showed  that 
life  was  still  continuing  the  inward  struggle.  At  last, 
the  mother  breathed  no  longer.  Those  present  wept, 
excepting  Marie,  too  young,  poor  child,  to  be  aware 
of  death.  Fanny  and  the  vine-dresser's  wife  closed 
the  eyes  of  the  once  exquisite  creature,  whose  beauty 
reappeared  in  all  its  glory.  They  sent  away  those 
present,  took  the  furniture  from  the  room,  placed  the 
body  of  the  departed  in  its  shroud,  lighted  the  wax- 
tapers  around  the  bed,  arranged  the  basin  of  holy 
water,  the  branch  of  box,  and  the  crucifix,  after  the 
manner  of  that  region  of  country,  closed  the  blinds 


336  La  Cirenadi^re, 

and  drew  the  curtains.  Then  the  vicar  came  and 
passed  the  night  in  prayer  with  Louis,  who  would 
not  leave  his  mother. 

The  funeral  took  place  Tuesday  morning ;  old  Fanny, 
the  children,  and  the  vine-dresser  alone  followed  the 
body  of  a  woman  whose  beauty,  wit,  and  grace  had 
given  her  in  other  daj^s  a  European  fame ;  and  whose 
funeral  would  have  been  pompousl}^  heralded  in  the 
newspapers  of  London,  as  an  aristocratic  solemnity, 
had  she  not  committed  a  tender  crime,  a  crime  always 
punished  on  this  earth,  perhaps  to  allow  the  pardoned 
angel  to  enter  heaven.  When  the  earth  fell  on  his 
mother's  coflSn,  Marie  wept,  comprehending  then  that 
he  should  see  her  no  more. 

A  simple  wooden  cross  stands  above  her  grave  and 
bears  these  words,  given  by  the  curate  of  Salnt-Cyr. 

HERE  LIES 

A  SORROWFUL  WOMAN. 

SHE   DIED   AGED   THIRTY-SIX, 

Bearing  the  name  Augusta  in  Heaven. 
Pray  for  her. 

When  all  was  over  the  children  returned  to  La 
Grenadiere  to  cast  a  last  look  upon  their  home ;  then, 
holding  each  other  by  the   hand,   they  prepared   to 


La  Qrenadiere.  837 

leave  it  with  Fanny,  making  the  vine-dresser  respon- 
sible to  the  authorities. 

At  the  last  moment  the  old  waiting- worn  an  called 
Louis  to  the  steps  of  the  well,  and  said  to  him  apart : 

*'  Monsieur  Louis,  here  is  madame's  ring." 

The  boy  wept,  —  moved  at  the  sight  of  a  li\ing  memo- 
rial of  his  dead  mother.  In  his  strong  self-command 
he  had  forgotten  this  last  duty.  He  kissed  the  old 
woman.  Then  all  three  went  down  the  sunken  path- 
way, and  down  the  flight  of  steps,  and  on  to  Tours 
without  once  looking  back. 

"  Mamma  used  to  stand  here,"  said  Marie,  when  they 
reached  the  bridge. 

Fanny  had  an  old  cousin,  a  retired  dressmaker, 
li^nng  in  the  rue  de  la  Guerche.  There  she  took  the 
lads,  thinking  they  could  all  live  together.  But  Louis 
explained  his  plans,  gave  her  Marie's  certificate  of 
birth  and  the  ten  thousand  francs,  and  the  next  day, 
accompanied  by  the  old  woman,  he  took  his  brother 
to  the  school.  He  told  the  principal  the  facts  of  the 
case,  but  ver}^  briefly,  and  went  awaj',  taking  his 
brother  with  him  to  the  gate.  There  he  tenderly  and 
solemnly  told  him  of  their  loneliness  in  the  world  and 
gave  him  counsel  for  the  future,  looked  at  him  silently' 
a  moment,  kissed  him,  looked  at  him  again,  wiped 
away  a  tear,  and  went  away,  looking  back  again  and 
again  at  bis  brother,  left  alone  at  the  college  gate. 


338  La  Grrenadiere, 

A  month  later  Louis  Gaston  was  an  apprentice  on 
board  a  government  ship,  leaving  the  Rochefort  roads. 
Leaning  against  the  shrouds  of  the  corvette  *'  Iris,"  he 
watched  the  coasts  of  France  as  they  dropped  below 
the  blue  horizon.  Soon  he  saw  himself  alone,  lost  in 
the  midst  of  ocean,  as  he  was  in  the  midst  of  life. 

"  Must  n't  cry,  young  fellow ;  there 's  a  God  for  all 
the  world,"  said  an  old  seaman,  in  his  gruff  voice,  both 
harsh  and  kind. 

The  lad  thanked  him  with  an  intrepid  look.  Then 
he  bowed  his  head  and  resigned  himself  to  a  sailor's 
Hfe,  for  —  was  he  not  a  father? 


1832. 


A  DOUBLE  LIFE. 


A    DOUBLE    LIFE. 


To  Madame  la  Comtksse  Louise  de  TuRHEiBf, 

NATE     BESf 

De  Balzac. 


As    A    MARK    OF     REMEMBRANCE     AND    AFFECTIONATE     RESPECT 
rSOM  HER  HUMBLE   SERVANT, 


THE   SECOND    LIFE. 

The  rue  du  Tourniquet-Saint-Jean,  formerly  one  of 
the  darkest  and  most  tortuous  streets  of  the  old  quar- 
ter of  Paris  which  encircles  the  H6tel-de-Ville,  wound 
round  the  little  gardens  of  the  prefecture  till  it  ended 
in  the  rue  du  Martroi  at  the  angle  of  an  old  wall,  now 
pulled  down.  Here  could  be  seen  the  turnstile  to 
which  the  street  owed  its  name,  a  relic  of  the  past 
that  was  not  destroyed  until  1823,  when  the  city  of 
Paris  caused  to  be  constructed  on  the  site  of  a  little 
garden  belonging  to  the  H6tel-de-Ville  a  splendid 
ball-room  for  the  fete  given  to  the  Due  d'Angoul^me 
on  his  return  from  Spain. 

The  widest  part  of  the  rue  du  Tourniquet  was  near 
its  junction  with  the  rue  de  la  Tixeranderie,  where 
it  was  only  five  feet  wide.  Consequently,  in  rainy 
weather  the  blackened  water  of  the  gutter  washed  the 
feet  of  the  old  houses,  bringing  along  with  it  the  filth 
and  refuse  deposited  by  each  household  at  the  various 


342  A  Double  Life. 

posts  along  the  street.  The  carts  for  the  removal  of 
such  rubbish  could  not  enter  the  narrow  way,  and  the 
dwellers  thereon  reckoned  upon  the  storms  of  heaven 
to  cleanse  their  ever-muddy  street  —  though  it  never 
could  be  clean.  When  the  summer  sun  struck  ver- 
tically down,  a  line  of  gold,  sharp  as  the  blade  of  a 
sabre,  illuminated  momentarily  the  darkness  of  the 
street,  but  without  drying  the  perpetual  dampness 
which  reigned  from  the  ground-floor  to  the  next  floor 
of  these  dark  and  silent  houses. 

The  inhabitants,  who  lighted  their  lamps  at  five 
o'clock  in  the  month  of  June,  never  put  them  out  in 
winter.  Even  to-day,  if  some  courageous  pedestrian 
ventures  to  go  from  the  Marais  to  the  quays  by  taking, 
at  the  end  of  the  rue  du  Chaume,  the  several  streets 
named  L'Homme  Anne,  Des  Billettes,  and  Des  Deux- 
Portes,  which  lead  into  that  of  the  Tourniquet-Saint- 
Jean,  he  will  fancy  he  has  been  walking  through  a 
crypt  or  cellar. 

Nearly  all  the  streets  of  the  old  Paris  resembled 
this  damp  and  sombre  labyrinth,  where  antiquaries 
can  still  find  several  historical  singularities  to  admire. 
For  instance,  when  the  house  which  stood  at  the  cor- 
ner of  the  rue  du  Tourniquet  and  the  rue  de  la  Tixer- 
anderie  still  existed,  observers  would  have  noticed 
two  heavy  iron  rings  built  into  the  wall,  a  remnant  of 
the  chains  which  the  watchman  of  the  quarter  put  up 
each  night  as  a  measure  of  public  safety. 

This  house,  remarkable  for  its  antiquity,  had  been 
built  with  precautions  which  fully  proved  the  unhealth- 
iness  of  these  old  dwellings ;  for,  in  order  to  sweeten 
the  ground-floor,  the  walls  of  the  cellar  were  raised 


A  Double  Life.  343 

fully  two  feet  above  the  level  of  the  soil,  which  neces- 
sitated a  rise  of  three  steps  in  order  to  enter  the  house. 
The  door-casing  described  a  semicircular  arch,  the 
apex  of  which  was  adorned  with  the  carving  of  a 
woman's  head  and  sundry  arabesques,  much  injured 
by  time.  Three  windows,  the  sills  of  which  were 
about  on  a  level  with  a  man's  head,  belonged  to  a 
small  apartment  on  the  ground-floor  looking  on  the 
rue  du  Tourniquet.  These  windows  were  protected  by 
strong  iron  bars  placed  far  apart,  ending  in  a  round 
projection  like  those  of  a  baker's  grating. 

If  any  inquisitive  pedestrian  had  cast  his  eyes  upon 
the  two  rooms  of  this  apartment  in  the  daytime,  he 
could  have  seen  nothing  within  them ;  a  July  sun  was 
needed  to  distinguish  in  the  second  room  two  beds 
draped  with  green  serge  under  the  panelled  ceiling  of 
an  old  alcove.  But  in  the  afternoons,  toward  three 
o'clock,  when  a  lamp  was  lighted,  it  was  possible  to 
see  through  the  window  of  the  first  room  an  old  woman 
sitting  on  a  stool  at  the  corner  of  a  fireplace,  where  she 
was,  at  that  hour,  stirring  something  in  a  chafing-dish 
which  resembled  those  stews  that  Parisian  portresses 
know  so  well  how  to  concoct.  A  few  kitchen  utensils 
hanging  on  the  wall  at  the  end  of  this  room  could  be 
seen  in  the  half-light.  An  old  table,  standing  on 
three  legs  and  devoid  of  linen,  held  knives  and  forks 
and  pewter  plates,  and,  presently,  the  dish  which  the 
old  crone  was  cooking.  Three  miserable  chairs  fur- 
nished the  room,  which  sei*ved  the  inhabitants  for 
kitchen  and  dining-room.  Over  the  fireplace  was  a 
fragment  of  mirror,  a  tinder-box,  three  glasses,  some 
sulphur  matches,  and  a  large  white  pot,  much  cracked. 


344  A  Double  Life. 

The  tiled  floor  of  the  hearth,  the  utensils,  the  fireplace, 
were  pleasing  to  the  eye  from  the  evident  spirit  of 
neatness  and  economy  which  reigned  in  that  cold,  dark 
home. 

The  pale  and  wrinkled  face  of  the  old  woman  was  in 
keeping  with  the  gloom  of  the  street  and  the  mould i- 
ness  of  the  building.  One  might  have  thought,  to  see 
her  seated  in  her  chair  when  doing  nothing,  that  she 
stuck  to  the  house  as  a  snail  to  its  shell.  Her  face, 
in  which  a  vague  expression  of  malice  underlay  an 
assumed  good-humor,  was  topped  by  a  flat  tulle  cap, 
which  scarcely  covered  her  white  hair;  her  large  gray 
eyes  were  as  still  as  the  street,  and  the  many  wrinkles 
on  her  skin  might  be  compared  to  the  cracks  and 
crevices  of  the  walls.  Whether  she  was  born  to 
poverty,  or  whether  she  had  fallen  from  some  better 
estate,  she  now  seemed  long  resigned  to  her  melan- 
choly existence.  From  sunrise  till  evening,  except 
while  preparing  the  meals,  or,  basket  in  hand,  she 
went  out  for  provisions,  this  old  creature  spent  her 
time  in  the  adjoining  room,  before  the  third  window 
and  opposite  to  a  young  girl. 

At  all  hours  of  the  day  this  young  girl,  sitting  in  an 
old  arm-chair  covered  with  red  velvet,  her  head  bent 
down  over  an  embroidery-frame,  worked  industriously. 
Her  mother  had  a  green  tambour-frame  on  her  lap  and 
seemed  to  be  making  tulle;  but  her  fingers  moved  the 
bobbins  stiffly,  and  her  sight  was  evidently  failing, 
for  her  nose,  of  three-score  years  and  over,  bore  a  pair 
of  those  old-fashioned  spectacles  which  hold  to  the  tips 
of  the  nostrils  according  to  the  force  with  which  they 
are  pinched  on.    At  night,  these  two  laborious  creatures 


A  Double  Life.  345 

placed  a  lamp  between  them ;  the  light  of  which,  fall- 
ing through  two  glass  globes  filled  with  water,  threw 
a  strong  ray  upon  their  work,  which  enabled  the  old 
woman  to  see  the  looser  strands  of  the  bobbins  of  her 
tambour,  and  the  young  girl  the  more  delicate  parts  of 
the  pattern  she  was  embroidering. 

The  curve  of  the  iron  bars  had  enabled  the  girl  to 
put  on  the  sill  of  the  window  a  long  wooden  box 
filled  with  earth ;  in  which  were  vegetating  sweet-peas, 
nasturtiums,  a  sickly  honeysuckle,  and  a  few  convol- 
vuli  whose  weakly  tendrils  were  clinging  to  the  bars. 
These  etiolated  plants  produced  a  few  pale  flowers; 
another  feature  strangely  in  keeping,  which  mingled 
I  scarcely  know  what  of  sweetness  and  of  sadness  in 
the  picture,  framed  by  the  window,  of  those  toiling 
figures.  A  mere  glance  at  that  interior  would  have 
given  the  most  self-absorbed  pedestrian  a  perfect 
image  of  the  life  led  by  the  work- women  of  Paris; 
for  it  was  evident  that  the  girl  lived  solely  by  her 
needle.  Many  persons  reaching  the  turnstile  had  won- 
dered how  any  young  creature  living  in  that  noisome 
place  could  have  kept  the  bright  colors  of  youth.  The 
lively  imagination  of  a  student  on  his  way  to  the 
"pays  latin"  might  have  compared  this  dark  and 
vegetative  life  to  that  of  ivy  draping  a  cold  stone- 
wall, or  to  that  of  peasants  born  to  toil,  who  labor 
and  die  ignored  by  the  world  they  have  contributed  to 
feed.  A  man  of  property  said  to  himself  as  he  looked 
at  the  house  with  the  eye  of  an  owner :  — 

"What  would  become  of  those  two  women  if  em- 
broidery should  go  out  of  fashion  ?  " 

Among  the  persons  whose  duty  took  them  at  fixed 


346  A  Double  Life. 

hours  through  this  narrow  way,  either  to  the  H6tel  de 
Ville  or  to  the  Palais,  some  might  perhaps  have  been 
found,  whose  interest  in  the  sight  would  take  a  more 
selfish  view  of  it;  some  widower,  perhaps,  or  some 
elderly  Adonis  might  have  thought  that  the  evident 
distress  of  the  mother  and  daughter  would  make  the 
innocent  work-girl  a  cheap  and  easy  bargain.  Or  per- 
haps some  worthy  clerk  with  a  salary  of  twelve  hun- 
dred francs  a  year,  the  daily  witness  of  the  girl's 
industrious  ardor,  might  have  reckoned  from  that  the 
purity  of  her  life  and  have  dreamed  of  uniting  one 
obscure  life  to  another  obscure  life,  one  plodding  toil 
to  another  as  laborious,  —  bringing  at  any  rate  the  arm 
of  a  man  to  sustain  existence,  and  a  peaceful  love, 
colorless  as  the  flowers  in  the  window. 

Such  vague  hopes  did  at  times  brighten  the  dull 
gray  eyes  of  the  old  mother.  In  the  morning,  after 
their  humble  breakfast,  she  would  take  her  tambour- 
frame  (more  for  appearances,  it  would  seem,  than  for 
actual  work,  because  she  laid  down  her  spectacles  on 
the  table  beside  her)  and  proceeded  to  watch  from 
half -past  eight  to  about  ten  o'clock  all  the  habitual 
passers  through  the  street  at  that  hour.  She  noted 
their  glances;  made  observations  on  their  demeanor, 
their  dress,  their  countenances ;  she  seemed  to  bargain 
with  them  for  her  daughter,  so  eagerly  did  her  keen 
eyes  seek  to  open  communications,  by  manoeuvres  like 
those  behind  the  scenes  of  a  theatre.  To  her  this 
morning  review  was  indeed  a  play;  perhaps  it  was 
her  only  pleasure. 

The  daughter  seldom  raised  her  head:  modesty,  or 
perhaps  the  painful  sense  of  poverty,  kept  her  eyes 


A  Double  Life,  347 

closely  fixed  upon  her  work;  so  that  sometimes,  in 
order  to  make  her  show  her  face  to  a  passer  in  the 
street,  her  mother  would  give  a  cry  of  surprise.  A 
clerk  with  a  new  overcoat,  or  an  habitual  passer 
appearing  with  a  woman  on  his  arm  might  then  have 
beheld  the  slightly  turned-up  nose  of  the  little  work- 
girl,  her  rosy  mouth,  and  her  gray  eyes,  sparkling 
with  life  in  spite  of  her  crushing  toil.  Those  wakeful, 
laborious  nights  were  only  shown  by  the  more  or  less 
white  circle  beneath  the  eyes  on  the  fresh,  pure  skin 
above  the  cheek-bones.  The  poor  young  thing  seemed 
born  for  love  and  gayety,  —  for  love,  which  had 
painted  above  her  rounded  eyelids  two  perfect  arches, 
and  had  given  her  such  a  forest  of  chestnut  hair  that 
she  might  have  hidden  her  whole  person  under  its 
impenetrable  veil;  for  gayety,  which  moved  her  ex- 
pressive nostrils,  and  made  two  dimples  in  her  glow- 
ing cheeks,  —  for  gayety,  that  flower  of  hope,  which 
gave  her  strength  to  look  without  faltering  at  the 
barren  path  of  life  before  her. 

The  beautiful  hair  of  the  girl  was  always  carefully 
aiTanged.  Like  all  other  work-women  of  Paris,  she 
thought  her  toilet  complete  when  she  had  braided 
and  smoothed  her  hair  and  had  twirled  into  circles  the 
two  little  locks  on  either  side  of  the  temples,  the  effect 
of  which  was  to  set  off  the  whiteness  of  her  skin. 
The  way  her  hair  grew  upon  her  head  was  so  full  of 
grace,  the  bistre  line  clearly  defined  upon  her  neck 
gave  so  charming  an  idea  of  her  youth  and  its  attrac- 
tions, that  an  observer  beholding  her  as  she  bent  over 
her  work,  not  raising  her  head  at  any  noise,  would 
have  put  down  such  apparent  unconsciousness  to 
coquetry. 


348  A  Double  Life. 

"Caroline,  there  *s  a  new  regular  man!  none  of  the 
old  ones  compare  with  him." 

These  words,  said  in  a  low  voice  by  the  mother  one 
morning  in  the  month  of  August,  1815,  conquered, 
apparently,  the  indifiference  of  the  girl,  for  she  looked 
into  the  street;  but  the  new  man  was  nearly  out  of 
sight. 

"Which  way  did  he  go?  "  she  asked. 

"He  '11  be  back,  no  doubt,  about  four  o'clock.  I 
shall  see  him  coming  and  I  '11  kick  your  foot.  I  'm 
certain  he  '11  come  back,  for  it  is  now  three  days  since 
he  took  to  coming  through  the  street.  But  he  is  n't 
regular  as  to  time.  The  first  day  he  came  at  six,  next 
day  it  was  four,  yesterday  five.  I  am  sure  I  have 
seen  him  at  some  time  or  other,  elsewhere.  I  dare  say 
he  *s  a  clerk  at  the  prefecture  who  has  gone  to  live 
in  the  Marais  —  Oh,  look  here !  "  she  added,  after 
glancing  into  the  street,  "our  monsieur  with  the  brown 
coat  has  taken  to  a  wig !  Heavens !  how  it  does  change 
him!" 

The  monsieur  with  the  brown  coat  must  have  been 
the  last  of  the  habitues  who  formed  the  daily  proces- 
sion, for  the  old  mother  now  put  on  her  spectacles, 
resumed  her  work  with  a  sigh,  and  looked  at  her 
daughter  with  so  singular  an  expression  that  Lavater 
himself  would  have  been  puzzled  to  analyze  it,  — 
admiration ,  gratitude,  a  sort  of  hope  for  better  things, 
mingled  with  the  pride  of  possessing  so  pretty  a 
daughter. 

That  evening,  about  four  o'clock,  the  old  woman 
pushed  the  girl's  foot,  and  Caroline  raised  her  head 
in  time  to  see  the  new  actor  whose  periodical  passing 


A  Double  Life.  349 

■was  now  to  enliven  the  scene  of  their  lives.  Tall, 
thin,  pale,  and  dressed  in  black,  the  man,  who  was 
about  forty  years  old,  had  something  solemn  in  his 
gait  and  demeanor.  When  his  tawny,  piercing  eye 
met  the  curious  glance  of  the  old  woman,  it  made 
her  tremble;  and  she  fancied  he  had  the  gift,  or  the 
habit,  of  reading  hearts.  Certainly  his  first  aspect 
was  chilling  as  the  air  itself  of  that  gloomy  street. 

Was  the  cadaverous,  discolored  complexion  of  that 
haggard  face  the  result  of  excessive  toil,  or  the 
product  of  enfeebled  health?  This  problem  was  solved 
by  the  old  mother  in  a  score  of  different  ways.  But 
the  next  day,  Caroline  divined  at  once  that  the 
wrinkled  brow  bore  signs  of  long-continued  men- 
tal suffering.  The  slightly  hollowed  cheeks  of  the 
stranger  bore  an  imprint  of  that  seal  with  which  mis- 
fortune marks  its  vassals,  as  if  to  leave  them  the  con- 
solation of  recognizing  one  another  with  fraternal  eye, 
and  uniting  together  to  resist  it. 

The  warmth  of  the  weather  happened  at  this  moment 
to  be  so  great,  and  the  stranger  was  so  absent-minded, 
that  he  omitted  to  put  on  his  hat  while  passing  through 
the  unhealthy  street.  Caroline  then  noticed  the  stern 
aspect  given  to  the  face  by  the  cut  of  the  hair,  which 
stood  up  from  his  forehead  like  a  brush.  Though  the 
girl's  eyes  were  first  brightened  by  innocent  curiosity, 
they  took  a  tender  expression  of  sympathy  and  pity 
as  the  stranger  passed  on,  like  the  last  mourner  in  a 
funeral  procession. 

The  strong,  but  not  pleasing,  impression  felt  by 
Caroline  at  the  sight  of  this  man  resembled  none  of 
the  sensations  which  the  other  habitual  passers  had 


350  A  Double  Life. 

conveyed  to  her.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  her 
compassion  was  aroused  for  another  than  her  mother 
and  herself.  She  made  no  reply  to  the  fanciful  conjec- 
tures which  furnished  food  for  the  irritating  loquacity 
of  the  old  woman,  but  silently  drew  her  long  needle 
above  and  below  the  tulle  in  her  frame ;  she  regretted 
that  she  had  not  seen  more  of  the  unknown  man,  and 
waited  until  the  morrow  to  make  up  her  mind  more 
decisively  about  him.  For  the  first  time,  too,  a  passer 
beneath  the  window  had  suggested  reflections  to  her 
mind.  Usually  she  replied  with  a  quiet  smile  to  the 
various  suppositions  of  her  mother,  who  was  always 
in  hopes  of  finding  a  protector  for  her  child  among 
these  strangers.  If  such  ideas,  imprudently  expressed, 
awoke  no  evil  thoughts  in  the  girl's  mind,  we  must 
attribute  Caroline's  indifference  to  the  cruelly  hard 
work  which  consumed  the  forces  of  her  precious  youth, 
and  must  infallibly  change  ere  long  the  limpid  light 
of  her  eyes  and  ravish  from  those  fair  cheeks  the 
tender  color  which  still  brightened  them. 

For  two  whole  months  the  "black  monsieur"  — 
such  was  the  name  they  gave  him  —  passed  through  the 
street  almost  daily,  but  capriciously  as  to  time.  The 
old  woman  often  saw  him  at  night  when  he  had  not 
passed  in  the  morning;  also  he  never  returned  at  the 
fixed  hours  of  other  employees,  who  served  as  clocks 
to  Madame  Crochard,  and  never,  since  the  first  day 
when  his  glance  had  inspired  the  old  mother  with  a 
sort  of  terror,  had  his  eyes  appeared  to  take  notice  of 
the  picturesque  group  of  the  two  female  gnomes,  —  an 
indifference  which  piqued  Madame  Crochard  who  was 
not  pleased  to  see  her  "black  monsieur  "  gravely  pre- 


A  Double  Life,  351 

occupied,  walking  with  his  eyes  on  the  ground  or 
looking  straight  in  front  of  him,  as  if  he  were  trying 
to  read  the  future  in  the  damp  mists  of  the  rue  du 
Tourniquet. 

However,  one  morning  toward  the  last  of  Septem- 
ber, the  pretty  head  of  Caroline  Crochard  stood  out  so 
brilliantly  on  the  dark  background  of  her  dingy  cham- 
ber, and  she  looked  so  fresh  among  her  spindling 
flowers  and  the  sparse  foliage  that  twined  about  the 
bars  of  the  window,  —  the  scene,  in  short,  presented 
so  many  contrasts  of  light  and  shade,  of  white  and 
rose,  blending  so  well  with  the  muslin  the  girl  was 
embroidering  and  the  tones  of  the  old  velvet  chair 
in  which  she  sat,  —  that  the  unknown  pedestrian  did 
look  attentively  at  the  effects  of  this  living  picture. 
Madame  Crochard,  weary  of  the  indifference  of  her 
black  gentleman,  had,  in  truth,  taken  the  step  of 
making  such  a  clatter  with  her  reels  and  bobbins  that 
the  gloomy,  thoughtful  stranger  was  perhaps  com- 
pelled by  this  unusual  noise  to  look  up  at  the 
window. 

He  exchanged  one  glance  with  Caroline,  rapid,  it  is 
true,  but  in  it  their  souls  came  slightly  in  contact,  and 
they  each  were  conscious  of  a  presentiment  that  they 
should  think  of  one  another.  That  evening  when  the 
stranger  returned,  about  four  o'clock,  Caroline  distin- 
guished the  sound  of  his  step  upon  the  pavement,  and 
when  they  looked  at  each  other  they  did  so  with  a 
species  of  premeditation;  the  eyes  of  the  stranger 
were  brightened  with  an  expression  of  benevolence, 
and  he  smiled,  while  Caroline  blushed.  The  old 
mother  watched  them  both  with  a  satisfied  air. 


352  A  Double  Life. 

After  that  memorable  morning  the  black  monsieur 
passed  through  the  rue  du  Tourniquet  twice  every  day, 
with  a  few  exceptions  which  the  two  women  noted; 
they  judged,  from  the  irregularity  of  his  hours  of 
return  that  he  was  neither  so  quickly  released  nor  so 
strictly  punctual  as  a  subaltern  clerk  would  be. 

During  the  first  three  winter  months  Caroline  and 
the  stranger  saw  each  other  twice  a  day  for  the  length 
of  time  which  it  took  him  to  walk  the  distance  flanked 
by  the  door  and  the  three  windows  of  the  house. 
Daily  this  brief  interview  took  on  more  and  more  a 
character  of  benevolent  intimacy,  until  it  ended  in 
something  that  was  almost  fraternal.  Caroline  and 
the  stranger  seemed  from  the  first  to  understand  each 
other;  and  then,  by  dint  of  examining  one  another's 
faces  a  deeper  knowledge  of  their  characters  came 
about.  The  meeting  became  a  sort  of  visit  which  the 
stranger  paid  to  Caroline;  if,  by  chance,  her  black 
monsieur  passed  without  giving  her  the  half-formed 
smile  on  his  eloquent  lips  or  the  friendly  glance  of  his 
brown  eyes,  something  was  lacking  to  her  day.  She 
was  like  those  old  men  to  whom  the  reading  of  their 
newspaper  becomes  such  a  pleasure  that  if  some  acci- 
dent delays  it  they  are  wholly  upset  at  missing  the 
printed  sheet  which  helps  them  for  an  instant  to  cheat 
the  void  of  their  dreary  existence. 

These  fugitive  meetings  soon  had,  both  to  Caroline 
and  to  the  unknown  man,  the  interest  and  charm  of 
familiar  conversation  between  friends.  The  young 
girl  could  no  more  conceal  from  the  intelligent  eye 
of  her  silent  friend  an  anxiety,  an  illness,  a  sad 
thought,  than  he  could  hide  from  her  the  presence  in 


A  Double  Life.  353 

his  mind  of  some  painful  preoccupation.  "Something 
troubled  him  yesterday,"  was  a  thought  that  often 
came  into  the  girl's  heart  as  she  noticed  a  strained 
look  on  the  face  of  her  black  gentleman.  *'0h!  he 
must  have  been  working  too  hard !  '*  was  another  ex- 
clamation caused  by  other  signs  and  shadows  that 
Caroline  had  learned  to  distinguish. 

The  stranger,  on  his  side,  seemed  to  know  when  the 
girl  had  spent  her  Sunday  in  finishing  a  lace  dress,  in 
the  design  of  which  he  felt  an  interest.  He  saw  how  the 
pretty  face  darkened  as  the  rent-day  came  round ;  he 
knew  when  Caroline  had  been  sitting  up  all  night; 
but  more  especially  did  he  notice  how  the  sad  thoughts 
now  beginning  to  tarnish  the  freshness  and  the  gayety 
of  that  young  face  were  dissipated  little  by  little  as 
their  unspoken  acquaintance  increased. 

When  winter  dried  the  foliage  and  the  tendrils  of 
the  puny  garden,  and  the  window  was  closed,  a  smile 
that  was  softly  malicious  came  to  the  stranger's  lips 
as  he  saw  the  bright  light  in  the  room  casting  Caro- 
line's reflection  through  the  panes.  An  evident  parsi- 
mony as  to  fire,  and  the  reddened  noses  of  the  two 
women,  revealed  to  him  the  indigence  of  the  little 
household;  but  if  a  pained  compassion  was  reflected 
in  his  eyes,  Caroline  proudly  undermined  it  with  a 
feigned  gayety. 

But  all  this  while  the  sentiments  that  were  budding 
in  their  hearts  were  buried  there,  and  no  event  hap- 
pened to  teach  them  the  strength  or  the  extent  of  their 
own  feelings;  they  did  not  even  know  the  sound  of 
each  other's  voices.  These  two  mute  friends  avoided 
a  closer  union  as  though  it  were  an  evil.    Each  seemed 

23 


354  A  Double  Life, 

to  fear  to  bring  upon  the  other  a  heavier  misfortune 
than  those  they  each  were  bearing.  Was  it  the  reti- 
cence of  friendship  that  thus  restrained  them,  or  that 
dread  of  selfishness,  that  atrocious  distrust  which  puts  a 
barrier  between  all  persons  collected  within  the  walls 
of  a  crowded  city  ?  Did  the  secret  voice  of  their  con- 
sciences warn  them  of  coming  peril?  It  is  wholly 
impossible  to  explain  the  feeling  which  kept  them 
enemies  even  more  than  friends,  seemingly  as  indiffer- 
ent to  each  other  as  they  were,  in  truth,  attached ;  as 
much  united  by  instinct  as  they  were  parted  by  fact. 
Perhaps  each  was  desirous  of  keeping  both  his  and 
her  illusion.  It  almost  seemed  as  though  this  name- 
less black  gentleman  feared  to  hear  from  those  fresh 
lips,  pure  as  a  flower,  some  vulgar  speech,  and  that 
Caroline  felt  herself  unworthy  of  that  mysterious 
being  who  bore  to  her  eyes  the  unmistakable  signs 
of  power  and  fortune. 

As  for  Madame  Crochard,  that  observant  mother, 
half  angry  at  her  daughter's  indecision,  began  to 
show  a  sulky  face  to  her  black  monsieur,  on  whom  she 
had  hitherto  smiled  with  an  air  as  complacent  as  it 
was  servile.  Never  did  she  bemoan  herself  to  her 
daughter  so  bitterly  at  the  hard  fate  which  obliged 
her,  at  her  age,  to  cook;  never  did  her  rheumatism 
and  her  catarrh  draw  from  her  so  many  moans.  Her 
state  of  mind  was  such  that  she  failed  to  do,  that 
winter,  the  number  of  yards  of  tulle  on  which  the  poor 
household  counted. 

Under  these  circumstances  and  toward  the  end  of 
December,  when  bread  was  becoming  dearer  and  the 
poor  were  already  feeling  that  rise  in  the  cost  of 


A  Double  Life.  355 

grains  which  made  the  year  1816  so  cruel  to  poverty, 
the  unknown  man  observed  on  the  face  of  the  girl, 
whose  name  was  unknown  to  him,  the  traces  of  some 
painful  thought  which  her  friendly  smiles  were  unable 
to  chase  away.  He  recognized  also  in  her  eyes  the 
weary  indications  of  nocturnal  labor.  On  one  of~the 
last  nights  of  the  month  he  returned,  contrary  to  cus- 
tom, through  the  rue  du  Tourniquet-Saint-Jean  about 
one  in  the  morning.  The  stillness  of  the  hour  enabled 
him  to  hear,  even  before  he  reached  the  house,  the 
whining  voice  of  the  old  woman,  and  the  still  more 
distressing  tones  of  the  girl,  the  sound  of  which 
mingled  with  the  hissing  sound  of  a  fall  of  snow. 

He  walked  slowly;  then,  at  the  risk  of  being 
arrested,  he  crouched  before  the  window  to  listen  to 
the  mother  and  daughter,  examining  them  through  one 
of  the  many  holes  in  the  muslin  curtains.  A  legal 
paper  lay  on  the  table  which  stood  between  their  two 
work-frames,  on  which  were  the  lamp  and  the  globes 
of  water.  He  recognized  at  once  a  summons  of  some 
kind.  Madame  Crochard  was  weeping  bitterly,  and 
the  voice  of  the  girl  was  guttural  with  her  grief,  com- 
pletely changing  its  soft  and  caressing  ring. 

"Why  make  yourself  so  unhappy,  mother?  Mon- 
sieur Moulineux  will  never  sell  our  furniture,  and  he 
cannot  turn  us  out  before  I  have  finished  this  gown. 
Two  nights  more  and  I  shall  carry  it  to  Madame 
Roguin." 

"And  she  '11  make  you  wait  for  the  money,  as  usual. 
Besides,  the  price  of  that  gown  won't  pay  the  baker, 
too." 

The  spectator  of  this  scene  had  so  great  a  habit  of 


356   .  A  Double  Life, 

reading  faces  that  he  thought  he  saw  as  much  hypoc- 
risy in  the  mother's  grief  as  there  was  truth  in  the 
daughter's.  He  disappeared  at  once;  but  presently 
returned.  Again  he  looked  through  the  ragged  mus- 
lin. The  mother  had  gone  to  bed.  The  girl  was 
bending  over  her  frame  with  indefatigable  energy. 
On  the  table  beside  the  summons  lay  a  small  piece  of 
bread  cut  in  a  triangle,  meant,  no  doubt  to  support 
her  during  the  night,  perhaps  to  sustain  her  courage. 
The  black  gentleman  shuddered  with  pity  and  with 
pain ;  he  flung  his  purse  through  a  hole  in  the  window 
that  was  covered  with  paper,  in  such  a  way  that  it  fell 
at  the  girl's  feet.  Then,  without  waiting  to  see  her 
surprise,  he  escaped,  his  heart  beating,  his  cheeks  on 
fire. 

The  next  day  the  sad  and  alien  man  passed  by  as 
usual,  affecting  a  preoccupied  air.  But  he  was  not 
allowed  to  escape  the  girl's  gratitude.  Caroline  had 
opened  the  window  and  was  digging  about  the  box 
of  earth  with  a  knife,  a  pretext  of  ingenuous  falsity 
which  proved  to  her  benefactor  that  on  this  occasion 
she  was  determined  not  to  see  him  through  glass. 
"With  eyes  full  of  tears  she  made  a  sign  with  her  head 
as  if  to  say,  "I  can  only  pay  you  with  my  heart." 

But  the  black  gentleman  seemed  not  to  understand 
the  expression  of  this  true  gratitude.  That  evening, 
when  he  passed  again,  Caroline  was  busy  in  pasting 
another  paper  over  the  broken  window  and  so  was  able 
to  smile  to  him,  showing  the  enamel  of  her  brilliant 
teeth,  like,  as  it  were,  a  promise.  From  that  day  the 
black  gentleman  took  another  road,  and  appeared  no 
more  in  the  rue  du  Tourniquet. 


A  Double  Life.  357 

During  the  first  week  of  the  following  May,  on  a 
Saturday  morning,  as  Caroline  was  watering  her 
honeysuckle,  she  beheld  between  the  two  black  lines 
of  houses  a  narrow  strip  of  cloudless  sky,  and  called 
to  her  mother  in  the  next  room  :  — 

"Mamma!  let  us  go  to-morrow  for  a  day's  pleasur- 
ing at  Montmorency ! " 

The  words  had  scarcely  left  her  lips  when  the  black 
monsieur  passed,  sadder  and  evidently  more  oppressed 
than  ever.  The  look  of  pleasure  which  Caroline  gave 
him  might  have  passed  for  an  invitation.  In  fact, 
the  next  day,  when  Madame  Crochard,  arrayed  in  a 
reddish-brown  merino  pelisse,  a  silk  bonnet,  and  a 
striped  shawl  made  to  imitate  cashmere,  went  with 
her  daughter  to  choose  a  coucou  at  the  corner  of  the 
rue  d'Enghien  and  the  rue  du  Faubourg-Saint-Denis, 
she  found  her  black  monsieur  standing  there,  with 
the  air  of  a  man  who  was  waiting  for  a  woman. 

A  smile  of  pleasure  softened  the  face  of  the  stranger 
when  he  beheld  Caroline,  whose  little  feet,  shod  in 
puce-colored  prunella  boots,  appeared  beneath  her 
white  muslin  gown,  which,  blown  by  the  wind  (too 
often  perfidious  to  ill-made  forms),  showed  off  her 
beautiful  figure,  while  her  face,  shaded  by  a  straw  hat 
lined  with  pink,  seemed  illuminated  by  a  ray  from 
heaven.  A  broad  belt,  also  puce-colored,  set  off  a 
little  waist  he  might  have  spanned  between  his  fingers ; 
her  hair,  parted  into  two  brown  bandeaus  round  a 
forehead  white  as  milk,  gave  her  an  air  of  simple 
purity  which  nothing  marred.  Pleasure  seemed  to 
taake  her  as  light  as  the  straw  of  her  hat;  but  a  hope 
darted  into  her  mind  on  seeing  the  black  gentleman, 


358  A  Double  Life, 

eclipsing  all  else.  He  himself  appeared  irresolute. 
Perhaps  the  sudden  revelation  of  joy  on  the  girl's  face 
caused  by  his  presence  may  have  decided  him,  for  he 
turned  and  hired  a  cabriolet,  with  a  fairly  good  horse, 
to  go  to  Saint-Leu-Taverny ;  then  he  asked  Madame 
Crochard  and  her  daughter  to  take  seats  in  it. 

The  mother  accepted  without  further  urging ;  but  no 
sooner  had  the  vehicle  fairly  started  than  she  brought 
forth  scruples  and  regrets  for  the  inconvenience  that 
two  women  would  cause  to  their  companion. 

"Perhaps  monsieur  would  rather  go  alone  to  Saint- 
Leu?"  she  said  hypocritically. 

Presently  she  complained  of  the  heat,  and  especially 
of  her  troublesome  catarrh,  which,  she  said,  had  kept 
her  awake  all  night,  and  the  carriage  had  hardly 
reached  Saint-Denis  before  she  was  asleep,  though 
certain  of  her  snores  seemed  doubtful  to  the  black 
monsieur,  who  frowned  heavily  and  looked  at  the  old 
woman  with  singular  suspicion. 

*'0h!  she's  asleep,"  said  Caroline,  naively.  "She 
coughed  all  night,  and  must  be  tired." 

For  all  answer,  the  gentleman  cast  a  shrewd  smile 
upon  the  girl  which  seemed  to  mean :  — 

"Innocent  creature!  you  don't  know  your  mother." 

However,  in  spite  of  his  distrust,  by  the  time  the 
cabriolet  was  rolling  along  the  avenue  of  poplars 
which  leads  to  Eau  Bonne,  the  black  gentleman 
believed  that  Madame  Crochard  was  really  asleep; 
perhaps,  however,  he  no  longer  cared  to  know  whether 
the  sleep  was  real  or  feigned.  Whether  it  was  that 
the  beauty  of  the  skies,  the  pure  country  air,  and  those 
delicious  scents  wafted  by  the  budding  poplars,  the 


A  Double  Life.  359 

willow  catkins,  the  blossoms  of  the  eglantine,  had 
inclined  his  heart  to  open  and  expand ;  or  that  further 
silence  became  irksome  to  him ;  or  that  the  sparkling 
eyes  of  the  young  girl  were  answering  his,  —  it  is  cer- 
tain that  the  black  monsieur  now  began  a  conversa- 
tion, as  vague  as  the  quivering  of  the  foliage  to  the 
breeze,  as  vagabond  as  the  circlings  of  a  butterfly,  as 
little  without  real  motive  as  the  voice,  softly  melo- 
dious, of  the  fields,  but  marked,  like  Nature  herself, 
with  mysterious  love. 

At  this  season  the  country  quivers  like  a  bride  who 
has  just  put  on  her  bridal  robes ;  it  invites  to  pleasure 
the  coldest  heart.  To  leave  the  darksome  streets  of 
the  Marais  for  the  first  time  since  the  previous  autumn, 
and  to  find  one's  self  suddenly  in  the  bosom  of  that  har- 
monious and  picturesque  valley  of  Montmorency;  to 
pass  through  it  in  the  morning  when  the  eye  can  fol- 
low the  infinity  of  its  horizons,  and  to  turn  from  that 
to  an  infinity  of  love  in  the  eyes  beside  us,  —  what 
heart  will  continue  icy,  what  lips  will  keep  their 
secrets  ? 

The  unknown  man  found  Caroline  more  gay  than 
clever,  more  loving  than  informed.  But  if  her  laugh 
was  a  trifle  giddy,  her  words  bore  evidence  of  true 
feeling;  and  when  to  the  leading  questions  of  her 
companion  she  replied  with  that  effusion  of  the  heart 
which  the  lower  classes  lavish,  when  they  feel  it, 
without  the  reticence  of  persons  of  good  society,  the 
face  of  the  black  gentleman  brightened,  and  seemed, 
as  it  were,  reborn ;  it  lost  by  degrees  the  sadness  that 
contracted  its  features,  and  gradually,  tint  by  tint, 
it  gained  a  look  of  youth  and  a  character  of  beauty 


360  A  BoulU  Life. 

which  made  the  young  girl  proud  and  happy.  She 
divined  instinctively  that  her  friend,  deprived  of  ten- 
derness and  love,  no  longer  believed  in  the  devotion 
of  women.  At  last  a  sudden  gush  of  Caroline's  light 
chatter  carried  off  the  last  cloud  which  veiled  on  the 
stranger's  face  his  real  youth  and  his  native  char- 
acter; he  seemed  to  come  to  some  eternal  divorce  from 
oppressive  ideas,  and  he  now  displayed  a  vivacity  of 
heart  which  the  solemnity  of  his  face  had  hitherto 
concealed.  The  talk  became  insensibly  so  familiar 
that  by  the  time  the  carriage  stopped  at  the  first 
houses  of  the  village  of  Saint-Leu  Caroline  was  call- 
ing her  friend  "Monsieur  Roger."  Then,  for  the  first 
time,  Madame  Crochard  woke  up. 

"Caroline,  she  must  have  heard  us,"  said  Roger, 
suspiciously,  in  the  young  girl's  ear. 

Caroline  answered  by  a  charming  smile  of  in- 
credulity, which  dispersed  the  dark  cloud  brought  by 
the  fear  of  a  scheme  to  the  forehead  of  the  distrust- 
ful man.  Without  expressing  any  surprise,  Madame 
Crochard  approved  of  everything,  and  followed  her 
daughter  and  Monsieur  Roger  to  the  park  of  Saint- 
Leu,  where  the  pair  had  agreed  to  ramble  about  the 
smiling  meadows  and  the  balmy  groves  which  the  taste 
of  Queen  Hortense  had  rendered  celebrated. 

"Heavens!  how  lovely!  "  cried  Caroline,  when,  hav- 
ing reached  the  green  brow  of  the  hill  where  the  forest 
of  Montmorency  begins,  she  saw  at  her  feet  the  vast 
valley  winding  its  serpentine  way  dotted  with  villages, 
steeples,  fields,  and  meadows,  a  murmur  of  which 
came  softly  to  her  ear  like  the  purling  of  waves,  as  her 
eyes  rested  on  the  blue  horizon  of  the  distant  hills. 


A  Double  Life,  361 

The  three  excursionists  followed  the  banks  of  an 
artificial  river  until  they  reached  the  Swiss  valley  with 
its  chalet  where  Napoleon  and  Queen  Hortense  were 
wont  to  stay.  When  Caroline  had  seated  herself  with 
sacred  respect  upon  the  mossy  wooden  bench  where 
kings  and  princesses  and  the  Emperor  had  reposed 
themselves,  Madame  Crochard  manifested  a  desire  to 
take  a  closer  view  of  a  suspension  bridge  between  two 
cliffs  a  little  farther  on.  Wending  her  way  to  that 
rural  curiosity  she  left  her  daughter  to  the  care  of 
Monsieur  Roger,  remarking,  however,  that  she  should 
not  go  out  of  sight. 

"Poor  little  thing!  "  cried  Roger,  "have  you  never 
known  comfort  or  luxury?  Don't  you  sometimes  wish 
to  wear  the  pretty  gowns  you  embroider?  " 

"I  should  n't  be  telling  the  truth.  Monsieur  Roger, 
if  I  said  I  never  thought  of  the  happiness  rich  people 
must  enjoy.  Yes,  I  do  think  often,  specially  when 
asleep,  of  the  pleasure  it  would  be  to  see  my  poor 
mother  saved  the  trouble  of  going  out  to  buy  our  food 
and  then  preparing  it  at  her  age.  I  would  like  to 
have  a  charwoman  come  in  the  morning  before  she  is 
out  of  bed,  and  make  her  a  cup  of  coffee  with  plenty 
of  sugar,  white  sugar,  in  it.  She  likes  to  read  novels, 
poor  dear  woman  I  Well,  I  *d  rather  she  used  her  eyes 
on  her  favorite  reading  than  strain  them  counting  bob- 
bins from  morning  till  night.  Also,  she  really  needs  a 
little  good  wine.  I  do  wish  I  could  see  her  happy, 
she  is  so  kind." 

"Then  she  has  always  been  kind  to  you?  " 

"Oh,  yes!  "  said  the  girl,  in  an  earnest  voice. 

As  they  watched  Madame  Crochard,  who  had  reached 


362  A  Double  Life. 

the  middle  of  the  bridge,  and  now  shook  her  finger  at 
them,  Caroline  continued :  — 

"Oh,  yes!  she  has  always  been  kind  to  me.  What 
care  she  gave  me  when  I  was  little!  She  sold  her  last 
forks  and  spoons  to  apprentice  me  to  the  old  maid 
who  taught  me  to  embroider.  And  my  poor  father! 
she  took  such  pains  to  make  him  happy  in  his  last 
days !  '* 

At  this  remembrance  the  girl  shuddered,  and  put 
her  hands  before  her  eyes. 

*'Bah!  don't  let  us  think  of  past  troubles,"  she 
resumed,  gayly. 

Then  she  colored,  perceiving  that  Eoger  was  much 
affected,  but  she  dared  not  look  at  him. 

''What  did  your  father  do?  "  asked  Roger. 

"He  was  a  dancer  at  the  Opera  before  the  Revolu- 
tion," she  replied,  with  the  simplest  air  in  the  world, 
"and  my  mother  sang  in  the  chorus.  My  father,  who 
managed  the  evolutions  on  the  stage,  chanced  to  be 
present  at  the  taking  of  the  Bastille.  He  was  recog- 
nized by  some  of  the  assailants,  who  asked  him  if  he 
could  n't  lead  a  real  attack  as  he  had  led  so  many 
sham  ones  at  the  theatre.  Father  was  brave,  and  he 
agreed ;  he  led  the  insurgents,  and  was  rewarded  with 
the  rank  of  captain  in  the  army  of  the  Sambre-et- 
Meuse,  where  he  behaved  in  such  a  way  that  he  was 
rapidly  promoted  and  became  a  colonel.  But  he  was 
terribly  wounded  at  Lutzen,  and  returned  to  Pai'is  to 
die,  after  a  year's  illness.  The  Bourbons  came  back, 
and  of  course  my  mother  could  not  get  a  pension,  and 
we  fell  into  such  dreadful  poverty  that  we  had  to  work 
for  our  living.     Of  late  the  poor  dear  woman  has  been 


A  Double  Life.  363 

ailing;  and  she  is  n't  as  resigned  as  she  used  to  be; 
she  complains,  and  I  don't  wonder,  — she,  who  once 
had  all  the  comforts  of  an  easy  life.  As  for  me,  I 
can't  regret  comforts  I  never  had;  but  there's  one 
thing  I  do  hope  Heaven  will  grant  me." 

"What  is  that?  "  asked  Roger,  who  seemed  dreamy. 

"That  ladies  will  always  wear  embroidered  gowns, 
so  that  I  shall  never  want  work." 

The  frankness  of  these  avowals  interested  her  hearer 
so  much  that  when  Madame  Crochard  slowly  returned 
to  them,  he  looked  at  her  with  an  eye  that  was  less 
hostile. 

"Well,  my  children,  have  you  had  a  good  talk?" 
she  asked,  in  a  tone  both  indulgent  and  sly.  "When 
one  thinks.  Monsieur  Roger,  that  '  the  little  corporal  * 
sat  on  that  bench  where  you  are  sitting !  "  she  con- 
tinued, after  a  moment's  silence.  "Poor  man!  how 
my  husband  loved  him!  Ah!  it  is  a  good  thing 
Crochard  died;  he  never  could  have  borne  to  think 
of  him  at  that  place  where  those  others  have  put  him." 

Roger  laid  a  finger  on  his  lips,  and  the  old  woman, 
nodding  her  head,  said,  gravely :  — 

"Enough;  I  '11  keep  a  dead  tongue  in  my  head  and 
my  lips  tight.  But,"  she  added,  opening  the  front 
of  her  dress,  and  showing  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of 
honor  and  its  red  ribbon  fastened  to  her  throat  with 
a  black  bow,  "nothing  can  prevent  me  from  wearing 
what  he  gave  to  my  poor  Crochard;  I  mean  to  be 
buried  with  it." 

Hearing  these  words,  which  at  that  time  were  held 
to  be  seditious,  Roger  interrupted  the  old  woman  by 
rising  abruptly,  and  they  started  to  return  to  the  vil- 


364  A  Double  Life, 

lage  through  the  park.  The  young  man  absented 
himself  for  a  few  moments  to  order  a  meal  at  the  best 
restaurant,  then  he  returned  to  fetch  the  two  women, 
guiding  them  along  the  paths  through  the  forest. 

The  dinner  was  gay.  Roger  was  no  longer  that 
gloomy  shadow  which  for  months  had  passed  through 
the  rue  du  Tourniquet;  no  longer  the  "black  mon- 
sieur," but  rather  a  hopeful  young  man  ready  to  let 
himself  float  upon  the  current  of  life  like  the  two 
women  who  were  happy  in  the  day's  enjoyment,  though 
the  morrow  might  find  them  without  food.  He  seemed, 
indeed,  to  be  under  the  influence  of  the  joys  of  youth; 
his  smile  had  something  caressing  and  childlike  about 
it.  When,  at  five  o'clock,  the  pleasant  dinner  came 
to  an  end  with  a  few  glasses  of  champagne,  Roger 
was  the  first  to  propose  that  they  should  go  to  the 
village  ball,  under  the  chestnut-trees,  where  he  and 
Caroline  danced  together.  Their  hands  met  in  one 
thought,  their  hearts  beat  with  the  same  hope,  and 
beneath  that  azure  sky,  glowing  toward  the  west  with 
the  level  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  their  glances  had  a 
•brilliancy  which,  to  each  other's  heart,  paled  even 
that  of  the  heaven  above  them.  Strange  power  of  a 
thought  and  a  desire!  nothing  seemed  impossible  to 
these  two  beings.  In  such  magic  moments,  when 
pleasure  casts  its  reflections  on  the  future,  the  soul 
can  see  naught  but  happiness.  This  charming  day 
had  created  for  both  of  them  memories  to  which  they 
could  compare  no  other  experience  of  their  lives.  Is 
the  spring  more  perfect  than  the  current,  the  desire 
more  ravishing  than  its  fulfilment?  is  the  thing  hoped- 
for  more  attractive  than  the  thing  possessed? 


A  Double  Life.  365 

"There  *s  our  day  already  over!  " 

At  this  exclamation  which  escaped  the  young  man 
when  the  dance  ended,  Caroline  looked  at  him  com- 
passionately, for  she  saw  the  sadness  beginning  again 
to  cloud  his  face. 

"  Why  are  you  not  as  happy  in  Paris  as  you  have 
been  here?"  she  said.  *'Is  there  no  happiness  except 
at  Saint-Leu  ?  It  seems  to  me  I  can  never  again  be 
discontented  anywhere." 

Roger  quivered  at  those  words,  dictated  by  the  soft 
abandonment  which  often  leads  women  farther  than 
they  mean  to  go,  — just  as,  on  the  other  hand,  prudery 
makes  them  stiffer  than  they  really  are.  For  the  first 
time  since  that  look  which  began  their  intimacy, 
Caroline  and  Roger  had  one  and  the  same  thought. 
Though  they  did  not  express  it,  they  each  felt  it  by  a 
mutual  impression  something  like  that  of  the  warmth 
of  a  glowing  hearth  beneficently  comforting  in  winter. 
Then,  as  if  they  feared  their  silence,  they  hastened  to 
the  place  where  their  vehicle  awaited  them.  But  be- 
fore they  reached  it  they  took  each  other  by  the  hand 
and  ran  along  a  wood-path  in  advance  of  Madame 
Crochard.  When  the  white  of  the  old  woman's  tulle 
cap  was  no  longer  visible  through  the  foliage,  Roger 
turned  to  the  girl  and  said,  with  a  troubled  voice  and 
a  beating  heart:  — 

"Caroline?" 

The  girl,  confused,  stepped  back  a  few  paces, 
understanding  the  desires  that  interrogation  implied ; 
nevertheless  she  held  out  her  hand,  which  was  ardently 
kissed,  though  she  quickly  withdrew  it,  for  at  that 
moment  her  mother  came  in  sight.     Madame  Crochard 


366  A  Double  Life, 

pretended  to  have  seen  nothing,  as  if,  remembering 
her  stage  experience,  the  scene  was  only  an  aside. 

The  history  of  Roger  and  Caroline  does  not  continue 
in  the  rue  du  Tourniquet ;  to  meet  them  again  we  must 
go  to  the  very  centre  of  modern  Paris,  where,  among 
the  newly  built  houses,  there  are  found  apartments 
which  seem  expressly  made  for  the  honeymoon  of 
bridal  couples.  The  paper  and  painting  are  as  fresh 
as  they;  the  decoration,  like  their  love,  is  in  its 
bloom ;  all  is  in  harmony  with  young  ideas  and  bound- 
ing desires.  About  the  middle  of  the  rue  Taitbout,  in 
a  house  where  the  copings  were  still  white,  the  col- 
umns of  the  vestibule  and  the  door  unsoiled,  the  walls 
shining  with  that  coquettish  paint  which  our  renewed 
relations  with  England  brought  into  fashion,  was  a 
little  apartment  on  the  second  floor,  arranged  by  an 
architect  as  if  he  had  foreseen  the  uses  to  which  it 
would  be  put.  A  simple  airy  antechamber  with  a 
stucco  wainscot  gave  entrance  to  a  salon  and  a  very 
small  dining-room.  The  salon  communicated  with  a 
pretty  bedchamber,  beyond  which  was  a  bathroom. 
The  mantels  were  adorned  with  mirrors  choicely 
framed.  The  doors  were  painted  with  arabesques 
in  excellent  taste,  and  the  style  of  the  cornices  was 
pure.  An  amateur  would  have  recognized,  better 
there  than  elsewhere,  that  science  of  arrangement  and 
decoration  which  distinguishes  the  work  of  our  modern 
architects. 

For  the  last  month  Caroline  had  occupied  this  pretty 
apartment,  which  was  furnished  by  upholsterers  under 
direction  of  the  architect.  A  short  description  of  the 
principal  room  will  give  an  idea  of  the  marvels  this 


A  Double  Life,  367 

apartment  presented  to  Caroline's  eyes  when  Roger 
brought  her  there. 

Hangings  of  gray  cloth  enlivened  by  green  silk 
trimmings  covered  the  walls  of  the  bedroom.  The 
furniture,  upholstered  with  pale-green  cassimere,  was 
of  that  light  and  graceful  shape  then  coming  into 
fashion.  A  bureau  of  native  wood  inlaid  with  some 
darker  wood  held  the  treasures  of  the  trousseau;  a 
secretary  of  the  same,  a  bed  with  antique  drapery, 
curtains  of  gray  silk  with  green  fringes,  a  bronze 
clock  representing  Cupid  crowning  Psyche,  and  a  car- 
pet with  gothic  designs  on  a  reddish  ground  were  the 
principal  features  of  this  place  of  delight.  Opposite 
to  a  psyche  mirror  stood  a  charming  toilet-table,  in 
front  of  which  sat  the  ex-embroidery  girl,  very  impa- 
tient with  the  scientific  labor  of  Plaisir,  the  famous 
coiffeur,  who  was  dressing  her  hair. 

"Do  you  expect  to  get  it  done  to-day?"  she  was 
saying. 

'* Madame' s  hair  is  so  long  and  thick,"  responded 
Plaisir. 

Caroline  could  not  help  smiling.  The  flattery  of 
the  artistic  hair-dresser  reminded  her,  no  doubt,  of 
the  passionate  admiration  expressed  by  her  friend  for 
the  beautiful  hair  he  idolized.  When  Plaisir  had 
departed,  Caroline's  maid  came  to  hold  counsel  with 
her  mistress  as  to  which  dress  was  most  likely  to 
please  Roger.  It  was  then  the  beginning  of  Septem- 
ber, 1816;  a  dress  of  green  grenadine  trimmed  with 
chinchilla  was  finally  chosen. 

As  soon  as  her  toilet  was  over  Caroline  darted  into 
the  salon,  opened  a  window  looking  upon  the  street, 


368  A  Double  Life. 

and  went  out  upon  the  elegant  little  balcony  which 
adorned  the  facade  of  the  house;  there  she  folded  her 
arms  on  the  railing  in  a  charming  attitude,  not  taken 
to  excite  the  admiration  of  the  passers  who  frequently 
turned  to  look  at  her,  but  to  fix  her  eyes  on  the  boulevard 
at  the  end  of  the  rue  Taitbout.  This  glimpse,  which 
might  be  compared  to  the  hole  in  a  stage-curtain  through 
which  the  actors  see  the  audience,  enabled  her  to  watch 
the  multitude  of  elegant  carriages  and  the  crowds  of 
people  carried  past  that  one  spot  like  the  rapid  slide  of 
a  magic  lantern.  Uncertain  whether  Roger  would  come 
on  foot  or  in  a  carriage,  the  former  lodger  in  the  rue 
du  Tourniquet  examined  in  turn  the  pedestrians  and 
the  tilbury s,  a  light  style  of  phaeton  recently  brought 
to  France  by  the  English.  Expressions  of  love  and 
mutinous  provocation  crossed  her  face  when,  after 
watching  for  half  an  hour,  neither  heart  nor  sight  had 
shown  her  the  person  for  whom  she  waited.  What 
contempt,  what  indifference  was  on  her  pretty  face  for 
all  the  other  beings  who  were  hurrying  along  like  ants 
beneath  her!  Her  gray  eyes,  sparkling  with  mischief, 
were  dazzling.  "Wholly  absorbed  in  her  passion,  she 
avoided  the  admiration  of  others  with  as  much  care  as 
some  women  take  to  obtain  it;  and  she  troubled  her- 
self not  at  all  as  to  whether  a  remembrance  of  her 
white  figure  leaning  on  the  balcony  should  or  should 
not  disappear  on  the  morrow  from  the  minds  of  the 
passers  who  were  now  admiring  her;  she  saw  but  one 
form,  and  she  had  in  her  head  but  one  idea. 

When  the  dappled  head  of  a  certain  horse  turned 
from  the  boulevard  into  the  street,  Caroline  quivered 
and   stood  on  tiptoe,  trying  to  recognize  the  white 


A  Double  Life.  369 

reins  and  the  color  of  the  tilbury.  Yes,  it  was  hel 
Roger,  as  he  turned  the  corner,  looked  toward  the 
balcony  and  whipped  his  horse  and  soon  reached  the 
bronze  door,  with  which  the  animal  was  now  as  famil- 
iar as  its  master.  The  door  of  the  apartment  was 
opened  by  the  maid,  who  had  heard  her  mistress's  cry 
of  pleasure.  Roger  rushed  into  the  salon,  took  Caro- 
line in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her  with  that  effusion  of 
feeling  which  accompanies  the  rare  meetings  of  two 
creatures  who  love  each  other.  Then  they  sat  down 
together  on  a  sofa  before  the  fire,  and  silently  looked 
at  one  another,  —  expressing  their  happiness  only  by 
the  close  grasp  of  their  hands,  and  communicating  their 
thoughts  through  their  eyes. 

"Yes,  it  is  he!  "  she  said  at  last  "Yes,  it  is  you! 
Bo  you  know  that  it  is  three  whole  days  since  I  last 
saw  you?  —  an  age!  But  what  is  the  matter?  I  know 
you  have  some  trouble  on  your  mind." 

"My  poor  Caroline  —  " 

*'0h,  nonsense!  poor  Caroline — " 

"Don't  laugh,  my  angel;  we  can't  go  to-night  to 
the  Feydeau." 

Caroline  made  a  face  of  discontent,  which  faded 
instantly. 

"How  silly  of  me!  why  should  I  care  about  the 
theatre  when  I  have  you  here.  To  see  you!  is  n't  that 
the  only  play  I  care  for?  "  she  cried,  passing  her  hand 
through  his  hair. 

"I  am  obliged  to  dine  with  the  attorney-general. 
We  have  a  most  troublesome  affair  on  hand.  He  met 
me  in  the  great  hall  of  the  Palais ;  and  as  I  open  the 
case,  he  asked  me  to  dinner  that  we  might  talk  it 

24 


370  A  Double  Life. 

over  previously.  But,  my  darling,  you  can  take  your 
mother  to  the  Feydeau  and  I  Ml  join  you  there,  if  the 
conference  ends  early." 

"Go  to  the  theatre  without  you!"  she  cried,  with 
an  expression  of  astonishment;  ''enjoy  a  pleasure  you 
can't  share!  Oh,  Roger,  you  don't  desers^e  to  be 
kissed,"  she  added,  throwing  her  arm  round  his  neck 
with  a  motion  as  naive  as  it  was  seductive. 

"Caroline,  I  must  go  now,  for  I  have  to  dress,  and 
it  takes  so  long  to  reach  the  Marais;  besides,  I  have 
business  that  must  be  finished  before  dinner." 

"Monsieur,"  said  Caroline,  "take  care  what  you 
say!  My  mother  assures  me  that  when  men  begin  to 
talk  to  us  of  business  that  means  they  no  longer  love 
us." 

"But,  Caroline,  1  did  come  as  I  promised;  I 
snatched  this  hour  from  my  pitiless  —  " 

"Oh,  hush!"  she  said,  putting  her  finger  on  his 
lips;  "hush!  don't  you  see  that  I  was  joking?" 

At  this  moment  Roger's  eye  lighted  on  an  article  of 
furniture  brought  that  morning  by  the  upholsterer,  — 
the  old  rosewood  embroidery-frame  the  product  of 
which  supported  Caroline  and  her  mother  when  they 
lived  in  the  rue  du  Tourniquet-Saint-Jean,  —  which 
had  just  been  "done-up"  like  new,  and  on  it  a  very 
beautiful  tulle  dress  was  already  stretched. 

"Yes,  look  at  it,  dear  friend!  I  shall  work  to- 
night; and  while  I  work  I  shall  be  thinking  of  those 
first  days  and  weeks  and  months  when  you  passed  me 
without  a  word  —  but  not  without  a  look !  those  days 
when  the  memory  of  a  look  kept  me  awake  at  night. 
Oh!  my  dear  frame,  the  handsomest  bit  of  furniture 


A  Double  Life,  371 

in  the  room,  though  you  did  not  give  it  to  me.  Ah! 
you  don't  know!"  she  continued,  seating  herself  on 
Roger's  knee.  "Listen!  I  want  to  give  to  the  poor 
all  I  can  now  earn  by  embroidery.  You  have  made 
me  so  rich,  I  want  for  nothing.  How  I  love  that  dear 
property  of  Belief euille !  less  for  what  it  is,  however, 
than  because  you  gave  it  to  me.  But  tell  me,  Roger ; 
I  should  like  to  call  myself  Caroline  de  Bellefeuille; 
can  I  ?  you  ought  to  know.     Is  it  legal  or  allowable  ?  " 

Seeing  the  little  nod  of  affirmation  to  which  Roger 
was  led  by  his  hatred  for  the  name  of  Crochard,  Caro- 
line danced  lightly  about  the  room,  clapping  her  hands 
together. 

*'It  seems  to  me,"  she  cried,  "that  I  shall  belong  to 
you  more  in  that  way.  Generally  a  girl  gives  up  her 
own  name  and  takes  that  of  her  husband." 

An  importunate  idea,  which  she  drove  away 
instantly,  made  her  blush.  She  took  Roger  by  the 
hand  and  led  him  to  the  piano. 

*' Listen,"  she  said.  **I  know  my  sonata  now  like 
an  angel." 

So  saying,  her  fingers  ran  over  the  ivory  keys,  but  a 
strong  arm  caught  her  round  the  waist  and  lifted  her. 

"Caroline,  I  ought  to  be  far  away'by  this  time." 

"You  must  go?     Well,  go,  then,"  she  said,  pouting. 

But  she  smiled  as  she  looked  at  the  clock,  and  cried 
out,  joyously :  — 

"At  any  rate,  1  have  kept  you  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
more." 

"Adieu,  Mademoiselle  de  Bellefeuille,"  he  said, 
with  the  gentle  mockery  of  love. 

She  took  a  kiss  and  led  him  to  the  door.     When  the 


372  A  Double  Life. 

sound  of  his  steps  was  no  longer  to  be  heard  on  the 
staircase  she  ran  to  the  balcony  to  see  him  get  into 
his  tilbury,  pick  up  the  reins,  and  send  her  a  last 
look.  Then  she  listened  to  the  roll  of  the  wheels 
along  the  street,  and  followed  with  her  eyes  the  mettle- 
some horse,  the  hat  of  the  master,  the  gold  lace  on  the 
groom's  livery,  and  even  looked  long  at  the  corner  of 
the  street  which  parted  her  from  that  vision  of  her 
heart. 

Five  years  after  the  installation  of  Mademoiselle 
Caroline  de  Bellefeuille  in  the  pretty  apartment  in 
the  rue  Taitbout,  another  domestic  scene  was  happen- 
ing there  which  tightened  still  further  the  bonds  of 
affection  between  the  two  beings  who  loved  each 
other. 

In  the  middle  of  the  blue  salon  and  in  front  of  the 
window  that  opened  on  the  balcony,  a  little  boy- 
about  four  and  a  half  years  old  was  making  an  infer- 
nal racket  by  whipping  and  urging  his  rocking-horse, 
which  was  going  at  a  pace  that  did  not  please  him. 
The  curls  of  his  pretty  blond  head  were  falling  in 
disorder  on  his  collarette,  and  he  smiled  like  an  angel 
at  his  mother  when  she  called  to  him  from  her  sofa : 

"Not  so  much  noise,  Charles;  you'll  wake  your 
little  sister." 

At  that  the  inquiring  boy  jumped  hastily  from  his 
horse  and  came  on  tiptoe,  as  if  he  feared  to  make  a 
sound  on  the  carpet;  then,  with  a  finger  between  his 
little  teeth,  he  stood  in  one  of  those  infantine  atti- 
tudes which  have  so  much  grace  because  they  are 
natural,  and  gently  lifted  the  white  muslin  veil  that  hid 
the  rosy  face  of  a  baby  asleep  on  its  mother's  knee. 


A  Double  Life.  373 

"Is  she  really  asleep?"  he  said,  much  surprised. 
"Why  does  Eugenie  sleep  when  we  are  all  awake?" 
he  inquired,  opening  wide  his  great  black  eyes  which 
floated  in  liquid  light. 

"God  only  knows  that,"  replied  Caroline,  smiling. 

Mother  and  son  gazed  at  the  little  girl  baptized 
that  morning.  Caroline,  now  about  twenty-four  years 
old,  had  developed  a  beauty  which  happiness  unalloyed 
and  constant  pleasure  had  brought  into  bloom.  In 
her,  the  woman  was  now  complete.  Happy  in  obey- 
ing all  the  wishes  of  her  dear  Roger,  she  had  by 
degrees  acquired  the  accomplishments  in  which  she 
was  formerly  lacking.  She  could  play  quite  well  on 
the  piano,  and  sang  agreeably.  Ignorant  of  the  usages 
of  society  (which  would  have  repulsed  her,  and  where 
she  would  not  have  gone  had  it  even  desired  her,  for 
a  happy  woman  does  not  seek  the  world),  she  had  not 
learned  how  to  assume  the  social  elegance  of  manner 
nor  how  to  maintain  the  conversation  teeming  with 
words  and  empty  of  thought  which  passes  current  in 
the  world.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  she  had  laboriously 
obtained  the  knowledge  and  the  accomplishments 
necessary  to  a  mother  whose  ambition  lies  in  bringing 
up  her  children  properly. 

Never  to  part  from  her  son;  to  give  him  from  his 
cradle  those  lessons  of  every  hour  which  imprint  upon 
the  youthful  soul  a  love  of  goodness  and  of  beauty, 
to  preserve  him  from  all  evil  influences,  to  fulfil  the 
wearisome  functions  of  a  nurse  and  the  tender  obliga- 
tions of  a  mother,  —  such  were  her  pleasures.  From 
the  very  first  day  of  her  love  the  discreet  and  gentle 
creature  resigned  herself  so  thoroughly  to  make  no 


374  A  Double  Life. 

step  beyond  the  enchanted  sphere  in  which  she  found 
her  joys,  that  after  six  years  of  the  tenderest  union 
she  knew  her  friend  only  by  the  name  of  Roger.  In 
her  bedroom  an  engraving  of  Psyche  coming  with  her 
lamp  to  look  at  Cupid,  though  forbidden  by  the  god  to 
do  so,  reminded  her  of  the  conditions  of  her  happiness. 

During  these  six  years  no  ill-placed  ambition  on 
her  part  wearied  Roger's  heart,  a  treasure-house  of 
kindness.  Never  did  she  wish  for  display,  for  dia- 
monds, for  toilets;  she  refused  the  luxury  of  a  car- 
riage offered  a  score  of  times  to  her  vanity.  To  watch 
on  the  balcony  for  Roger's  cabriolet,  to  go  with  him 
to  the  theatre,  to  ramble  with  him  in  fine  weather  in 
the  country  about  Paris,  to  hope  for  him,  to  see  him, 
to  hope  for  him  again,  —  that  was  the  story  of  her  life, 
poor  in  events,  rich  in  affection. 

While  rocking  to  sleep  with  a  song  the  baby,  a 
girl,  born  a  few  months  before  the  day  of  which  we 
speak,  she  pleased  herself  by  evoking  her  memories  of 
the  past.  The  period  she  liked  best  to  dwell  on  was 
the  month  of  September  in  every  year,  when  Roger 
took  her  to  Belief euille  to  enjoy  the  country  at  that 
season.  Nature  is  then  as  prodigal  of  fruit  as  of 
flowers;  the  evenings  are  warm,  the  mornings  soft, 
and  the  sparkle  of  summer  still  keeps  at  bay  the 
melancholy  ghost  of  autumn. 

During  the  first  period  of  their  love  Caroline  attrib- 
uted the  calm  equability  of  soul  and  the  gentleness  of 
which  Roger  gave  her  so  many  proofs  to  the  rarity  of 
their  meetings,  always  longed  for,  and  to  their  manner 
of  life,  which  did  not  keep  them  perpetually  in  each 
other's   presence,    as   with   husband   and   wife.     She 


A  Double  Life.  375 

recalled  with  delight  how,  during  their  first  stay  on 
the  beautiful  little  property  in  the  Gatinais,  tormented 
by  a  vague  fear,  she  watched  him.  Useless  espial  of 
love!  Each  of  those  joyful  months  passed  like 
a  dream  in  the  bosom  of  a  happiness  that  proved 
unchangeable.  She  had  never  seen  that  kind  and 
tender  being  without  a  smile  on  his  lips,  —  a  smile 
that  seemed  the  echo  of  her  own.  Sometimes  these 
pictures  too  vividly  evoked  brought  tears  to  her  eyes ; 
she  fancied  she  did  not  love  him  enough,  and  was 
tempted  to  see  in  her  equivocal  situation  a  sort  of  tax 
levied  by  fate  upon  her  love. 

At  other  times  an  invincible  curiosity  led  her  to 
wonder  for  the  millionth  time  what  events  they  were 
which  could  have  driven  so  loving  a  man  as  Roger  to 
find  his  happiness  in  ways  that  were  clandestine  and 
illegal.  She  invented  a  score  of  romances,  chiefly  to 
escape  admitting  the  real  reason,  long  since  divined, 
though  her  heart  refused  to  believe  in  it. 

She  now  rose,  still  holding  her  sleeping  child  in  her 
arms,  and  went  into  the  dining-room  to  superintend 
the  arrangements  of  the  table  for  dinner.  The  day 
was  the  6th  of  May,  1822,  the  anniversary  of  their 
excursion  to  the  park  of  Saint-Leu,  when  her  life  was 
decided;  during  every  succeeding  year  that  day  had 
been  kept  as  a  festival  of  the  heart.  Caroline  now 
selected  the  linen  and  ordered  the  arrangement  of  the 
dessert.  Having  thus  taken  the  pains  which  she  knew 
would  please  Roger,  she  laid  the  baby  in  its  pretty 
cradle  and  took  up  her  station  on  the  balcony  to  watch 
for  the  useful  cabriolet  which  had  now  replaced  the 
elegant  tilbury  of  former  years. 


376  A  Doulle  Life. 

After  receiving  the  first  onset  of  Caroline's  caresses 
and  those  of  the  lively  urchin  who  called  him  "papa," 
Roger  went  to  the  cradle,  looked  at  his  sleeping  daugh- 
ter, kissed  her  forehead,  and  drew  from  his  pocket  a 
long  paper,  covered  with  black  lines. 

"Caroline,"  he  said,  "here  's  the  dowry  of  Made- 
moiselle Eugenie  de  Belief euille." 

The  mother  took  the  paper  (a  certificate  of  invest- 
ment on  the  Grand-livre)  gratefully. 

"Why  three  thousand  francs  a  year  to  Eugenie, 
when  you  only  gave  fifteen  hundred  a  year  to 
Charles?"  she  asked. 

"Charles,  my  angel,  will  be  a  man,"  he  answered. 
"Fifteen  hundred  francs  will  suffice  to  support  him. 
With  that  income  a  man  of  energy  is  above  want.  If, 
by  chance,  your  son  should  be  a  nullity,  I  do  not  wish 
to  give  him  enough  to  make  him  dissipated.  If  he 
has  ambition,  that  small  amount  of  property  will  in- 
spire him  with  a  love  of  work,  and  it  will  also  enable 
to  work.  Eugenie  is  a  woman,  and  must  be  provided 
for." 

The  father  began  to  play  with  Charles,  whose  lively 
demonstrations  were  proofs  of  the  independence  and 
liberty  in  which  he  was  being  educated.  No  fear 
between  child  and  father  destroyed  that  charm  which 
compensates  paternity  for  its  heavy  responsibilities; 
the  gayety  of  the  little  family  was  as  sweet  as  it  was 
genuine.  That  evening  a  magic  lantern  was  produced 
which  cast  upon  a  white  sheet  mysterious  scenes  and 
pictures  to  the  great  amazement  of  the  boy.  More 
than  once  the  raptures  of  the  innocent  little  fellow 
excited  the  wild  laughter  of  his  father  and  mother. 


A  Double  Life.  377 

Later,  when  the  child  had  gone  to  bed,  the  baby  woke, 
demanding  its  legitimate  nourishment.  By  the  light 
of  the  lamp,  beside  the  hearth,  in  that  chamber  of 
peace  and  pleasure,  Roger  abandoned  himself  to  the 
happiness  of  contemplating  the  picture  of  Caroline 
with  her  infant  at  her  breast,  white  and  fresh  as  a  lily 
when  it  blooms,  her  beautiful  brown  hair  falling  in 
such  masses  of  curls  as  almost  to  hide  her  throat. 
The  light,  as  it  fell,  brought  out  the  charms  of  this 
young  mother,  —  multiplying  upon  her  and  about  her, 
on  her  clothes  and  on  her  infant,  those  picturesque 
effects  which  are  produced  by  combinations  of  light 
and  shade.  The  face  of  the  calm  and  silent  woman 
seemed  sweeter  than  ever  before  to  Roger,  who  looked 
with  tender  eyes  at  the  red  and  curving  lips  from 
which  no  bitter  or  discordant  word  had  ever  issued. 
The  same  love  shone  in  Caroline's  own  eyes  as  she 
examined  Roger  furtively,  either  to  enjoy  the  effect 
she  was  producing,  or  to  know  if  she  might  keep  him 
that  evening. 

Roger,  who  saw  that  meaning  in  her  glance,  said, 
with  feigned  regret :  — 

"I  must  soon  be  going.  I  have  important  business 
to  attend  to;  they  expect  me  at  home.  Duty  first; 
isn't  that  so,  my  darling?" 

Caroline  watched  him  with  a  sad  and  gentle  look, 
which  did  not  leave  him  ignorant  of  the  pain  of  her 
sacrifice. 

"Adieu,  then,"  she  said.  "Go  now!  If  you  stay 
an  hour  longer  perhaps  I  shall  not  then  be  able  to  let 
you  go." 

"My  angel,"  he  said,  smiling,  "I  have  three  days' 


378  A  Double  Life. 

leave  of  absence,  and  I  am  supposed  to  be  at  this 
moment  twenty  leagues  from  Paris." 

A  few  days  after  this  anniversary  of  the  6th  of 
May,  Mademoiselle  de  Bellefeuille  was  hun*ying  one 
morning  to  the  rue  Saint-Louis  in  the  Marais,  hoping 
not  to  arrive  too  late  at  a  house  where  she  usually 
went  regularly  once  a  week.  A  messenger  had  been 
sent  to  tell  her  that  her  mother,  Madame  Crochard, 
was  dying  from  a  complication  of  ills  brought  on  by 
catarrh  and  rheumatism. 

While  Caroline  was  still  on  the  way,  certain  scrup- 
ulous old  women  with  whom  Madame  Crochard  had 
made  friends  for  the  last  few  years,  introduced  a  priest 
into  the  clean  and  comfortable  apartment  of  the  old 
mother  on  the  second  floor  of  the  house.  Madame 
Crochard 's  servant  was  ignorant  that  the  pretty  young 
lady  with  whom  her  mistress  often  dined  was  the  old 
woman's  daughter.  She  was  the  first  to  propose  call- 
ing in  a  confessor,  hoping,  secretly,  that  the  priest 
would  be  of  as  much  use  to  her  as  to  the  sick  woman. 

Between  two  games  of  cards,  or  while  walking 
together  in  the  Jardin  Turc,  the  old  women  with  whom 
Madame  Crochard  gossiped  daily  had  contrived  to 
instil  into  the  hardened  heart  of  their  friend  certain 
scruples  as  to  her  past  life,  a  few  ideas  of  the  future, 
a  few  fears  on  the  subject  of  hell,  and  certain  hopes 
of  pardon  based  on  a  sincere  return  to  the  duties  of 
religion.  Consequently,  during  this  solemn  morning 
three  old  dames  from  the  rue  Saint-FranQois  and  the 
rue  Vieille-du-Temple  established  themselves  in  the 
salon  where  Madame  Crochard  was  in  the  habit  of 
receiving  them  every  Tuesday.     They  each  took  turns 


A  Double  Life.  379 

to  keep  the  poor  old  creature  company  and  give  her 
those  false  hopes  with  which  the  sick  are  usually 
deluded. 

It  was  not  until  the  crisis  seemed  approaching  and 
the  doctor,  called  in  the  night  before,  refused  to 
answer  for  the  patient's  life,  that  the  three  old  women 
consulted  one  another  to  decide  if  it  were  necessary 
to  notify  Mademoiselle  de  Bellefeuille.  Frangoise, 
the  maid,  was  finally  instructed  to  send  a  messenger 
to  the  rue  Taitbout  to  inform  the  young  relation  whose 
influence  was  feared  by  the  four  old  women,  each  of 
whom  devoutly  hoped  that  the  man  might  return  too 
late  with  the  person  on  whom  Madame  Crochard  had 
seemed  to  set  a  great  affection.  The  latter,  rich  to 
their  minds,  and  spending  at  least  three  thousand 
francs  a  year,  was  courted  and  cared  for  by  the  female 
trio  solely  because  none  of  these  good  friends,  nor 
even  Fran9oise  herself,  knew  of  her  having  any  heirs. 
The  opulence  in  which  her  young  relation  Mademoi- 
selle de  Bellefeuille  lived  (Madame  Crochard  refrained 
from  calling  Caroline  her  daughter,  according  to  a 
well-known  custom  of  the  Opera  of  her  day)  seemed 
to  justify  their  scheme  of  sharing  the  property  of  the 
dying  woman  among  themselves. 

Presently  one  of  the  three  crones,  who  was  watching 
the  patient,  put  her  shaking  head  into  the  room  where 
the  other  two  were  waiting,  and  said :  — 

"It  is  time  to  send  for  the  Abbe  Fontanon.  In  two 
hours  from  now  she  will  be  unconscious,  and  could  n't 
sign  her  name." 

Old  Frangoise  departed  immediately,  and  soon  re- 
turned with  a  man  in  a  black  coat.     A  narrow  fore- 


380  A  Double  Life. 

head  bespoke  a  narrow  mind  in  this  priest,  whose  face 
was  of  the  commonest,  — his  heavy,  hanging  cheeks, 
his  double  chin,  showing  plainly  enough  a  comfort- 
loving  egotist.  His  powdered  hair  gave  him  a  spe- 
ciously mild  appearance  until  he  raised  his  small  brown 
eyes,  which  were  very  prominent,  and  would  have  been 
in  their  proper  place  beneath  the  brows  of  a  Kalmuc 
Tartar. 

"Monsieur  I'abbe,"  Frangoise  was  saying  to  him, 
"I  thank  you  for  your  advice,  but  you  must  please 
to  remember  the  care  I  have  taken  of  this  dear 
woman  —  " 

Here  she  suddenly  paused,  observing  that  the  door 
of  the  apartment  was  open  and  that  the  most  insinuat- 
ing of  the  three  crones  was  standing  on  the  landing  to 
be  the  first  to  speak  with  the  confessor. 

When  the  ecclesiastic  had  graciously  received  the 
triple  broadside  of  the  three  pious  and  devoted  friends 
of  the  widow  he  went  into  the  latter' s  chamber  and 
eat  down  by  her  bedside.  Decency  and  a  certain 
sense  of  propriety  forced  the  three  ladies  and  old 
FranQoise  to  remain  in  the  adjoining  room,  where 
they  assumed  looks  of  grief  and  mourning,  which 
none  but  wrinkled  old  faces  like  theirs  can  mimic 
to  perfection. 

"Ah!  but  haven't  I  been  unlucky?"  cried  Fran- 
9oise,  with  a  sigh.  "This  is  the  fourth  mistress  I've 
had  the  grief  to  bury.  The  first  left  me  an  annuity 
of  a  hundred  francs,  the  second  a  hundred  and  fifty, 
the  third  a  sum  down  of  three  thousand.  After  thirty 
years'  service  that 's  all  I  've  got!  " 

The  servant  presently  used  her  right  of  going  and 


-4, 

A  Double  Life.  331 

coming  to  slip  into  a  little  closet  where  she  could 
overhear  the  priest's  words. 

"I  see  with  pleasure,"  said  Fontanon,  "that  your 
feelings,  my  daughter,  are  those  of  true  piety.  You 
are  wearing,  I  see,  some  holy  relic." 

Madame  Crochard  made  a  vague  movement  which 
showed  perhaps  that  she  was  not  wholly  in  her  right 
mind,  for  she  dragged  out  the  imperial  cross  of  the 
Legion  of  honor. 

The  abbe  rolled  back  his  chair  on  beholding  the 
eflfigy  of  the  emperor.  But  he  soon  drew  closer  to  his 
penitent,  who  talked  to  him  in  so  low  a  voice  that  for 
a  time  Fran^oise  could  hear  nothing. 

"A  curse  upon  me!/'  cried  the  old  woman  suddenly, 
in  a  louder  voice.  "Don't  abandon  me,  monsieur 
I'abbe.  Do  you  really  think  I  shall  have  to  answer 
for  my  daughter's  soul?*' 

The  priest  spoke  in  so  low  a  voice  that  Frangoise 
could  not  hear  him  through  the  partition. 

"Alas!"  cried  the  widow,  shrilly,  "the  wretch  has 
given  me  nothing  that  I  can  will  to  any  one.  When 
he  took  my  poor  Caroline,  he  separated  her  from  me, 
and  gave  me  only  three  thousand  francs  a  year,  the 
capital  of  which  is  to  go  to  my  daughter." 

"Madame  has  a  daughter,  and  only  an  annuity!" 
cried  Fran^oise,  hastening  into  the  salon. 

The  three  old  women  looked  at  each  other  in  amaze- 
ment. The  one  whose  chin  and  nose  were  nearest 
together  (thus  revealing  a  certain  superior  hypocrisy 
and  shrewdness)  winked  at  the  other  two,  and  as  soon 
as  FranQoise  had  turned  her  back  she  made  them  a 
sign  which  meant,  *She  's  a  sly  one;  she  has  got  her- 
self down  on  three  wills  already." 


«r 


382  A  Bouhle  Life. 

The  three  old  women  remained  therefore  where  they 
were.  But  the  abbe  presently  joined  them,  and  after 
they  had  heard  what  he  had  to  say,  they  hurried  like 
witches  down  the  stairs  and  out  of  the  house,  leaving 
Franyoise  alone  with  her  mistress. 

Madame  Crochard,  whose  sufferings  were  increasing 
cruelly,  rang  in  vain  for  her  maid,  who  was  busy  in 
making  a  search  among  the  old  woman's  receptacles, 
and  contented  herself  by  calling  out  from  time  to 
time :  — 

"Yes,  yes !     I  'm  coming !  —  presently !  " 

The  doors  of  the  closets  and  wardrobes  were  heard 
to  open  and  shut,  as  if  Frangoise  were  looking  for 
some  lottery-ticket  or  bank-note  hidden  among  their 
contents.  At  this  moment,  when  the  crisis  was  im- 
pending, Mademoiselle  de  Belief  euille  arrived. 

"Oh!  my  dear  mother,"  she  cried,  "how  criminal 
I  am  not  to  have  got  here  sooner !  You  suffer,  and  I 
did  not  know  it!  my  heart  never  told  me  you  were  in 
pain !     But  here  I  am  now  —  '* 

"Caroline." 

"Yes." 

"They  brought  me  a  priest." 

"A  doctor  is  what  you  want,"  cried  Caroline. 
"Frangoise,  fetch  a  doctor.  How  could  those  ladies 
neglect  to  have  a  doctor?  " 

"They  brought  me  a  priest,"  reiterated  Madame 
Crochard,  with  a  sigh. 

"How  she  suffers!  and  not  a  thing  to  give  her;  no 
quieting  medicine,  nothing !  "  ^ 

The  mother  made  an  indistinct  sign ;  but  Caroline's 
intelligent  eye  saw  what  was  meant;  she  was  instantly 
silent  herself  that  her  mother  might  speak. 


A  Double  Life.  383 

"They  brought  me  a  priest,"  said  the  old  woman  for 
the  third  time,  "on  pretence  of  confessing  me.  Be- 
ware for  yourself,  Caroline,"  she  cried  out  painfully, 
making  a  last  effort;  "the  priest  dragged  out  of  me 
the  name  of  your  protector." 

"How  did  you  know  it,  my  poor  mother?"  The 
old  woman  died  while  striving  to  look  satirically  at 
her  daughter.  If  Caroline  had  observed  her  mother's 
face  at  that  moment  she  would  have  seen  what  no  one 
will  ever  see,  namely,  —  Death  laughing. 

To  understand  the  secrets  underlying  this  introduc- 
tion to  our  present  Scene,  we  must  for  a  time  forget 
these  personages  and  turn  back  to  the  story  of  anterior 
events.  The  conclusion  of  that  story  will  be  seen  to 
be  connected  with  the  death  of  Madame  Crochard. 
These  two  parts  will  then  form  one  history,  which,  by 
a  law  peculiar  to  Parisian  life,  had  produced  two 
distinct  and  separate  lines  of  action. 


384  A  Douhle  Life. 


TL 


THE   FIRST   LIFE. 

Toward  the  close  of  November,  1805,  a  young  law- 
yer, then  about  twenty-six  years  of  age,  was  coining 
down  the  grand  staircase  of  the  mansion  occupied  by 
the  arch-chancellor  of  the  Empire,  about  three  in 
the  morning.  When  he  reached  the  court-yard  in  his 
evening  dress  and  saw  a  thin  coating  of  ice,  he  gave 
an  exclamation  of  dismay,  through  which,  however, 
shone  that  sense  of  amusement  which  seldom  deserts 
a  Frenchman.  Looking  about  him  he  saw  no  hack- 
ney-coaches, and  heard  in  the  distance  none  of  those 
familiar  sounds  produced  by  the  wooden  shoes  of  Par- 
isian coachmen  and  their  gruff  voices.  The  tramp- 
ling of  a  few  horses  were  heard  in  the  court-yard, 
among  them  those  of  the  chief-justice,  whom  the 
young  man  had  just  seen  playing  cards  with  Cam- 
baceres.  Suddenly  he  felt  the  friendly  clap  of  a  hand 
upon  his  shoulder;  looking  round,  he  beheld  the  chief- 
justice  and  bowed  to  him. 

As  the  footman  was  letting  down  the  steps  of  his 
carriage,  the  former  legislator  of  the  Convention  had 
observed  the  young  man's  predicament. 

"All  cats  are  gray  at  night,"  he  said,  gayly.  "The 
chief- justice  won't  compromise  himself  if  he  does 
take  a  barrister    to  his  lodgings.    Especially,"   he 


A  DouUe  Life.  385 

added,  "if  the  said  barrister  is  the  nephew  of  an  old 
colleague,  and  one  of  the  lights  of  that  great  Council 
of  State  which  gave  the  Code  Napoleon  to  France." 

The  young  man  got  into  the  carriage,  obeying  an 
imperative  sign  from  the  chief  law  officer  of  imperial 
justice. 

"Where  do  you  live?"  asked  the  minister,  while  the 
footman  awaited  the  order  before  he  closed  the  door. 

**Quai  des  Augustins,  monseigneur." 

The  horses  started,  and  the  young  lawyer  found 
himself  tete  a  tete  with  the  minister,  whom  he  had 
vainly  endeavored  to  speak  with  both  during  and  after 
the  sumptuous  dinner  of  Cambaceres;  it  was  evident 
to  his  mind  that  the  chief-justice  had  taken  pains  to 
avoid  him  during  the  whole  evening. 

"Well,  Monsieur  de  Granville,  it  seems  to  me  that 
you  are  on  the  right  road  now  —  " 

"So  long  as  I  am  seated  by  your  Excellency  —  " 

"I'm  not  joking,"  said  the  minister.  "You  were 
called  to  the  bar  two  years  ago,  and  since  then  your 
defence  in  the  Simeuse  and  the  Hauteserre  trials  have 
placed  you  very  high." 

"I  have  thought,  until  now,  that  my  devotion  to 
those  unfortunate  emigres  did  me  an  injury." 

"You  are  very  young,"  said  the  minister,  gravely. 
"But,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  "you  pleased  the 
arch-chancellor  to-night.  Enter  the  magistracy  of  the 
bar;  we  back  the  right  men  there.  The  nephew  of  a 
man  for  whom  Cambaceres  and  I  feel  the  deepest 
interest  ought  not  to  remain  a  mere  pleader  for  want 
of  influence.  Your  uncle  helped  us  to  come  safely 
through  a  stormy  period,  and  such  services  must  not 
be  forgotten." 

26 


386  A  Double  Life, 

The  minister  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "Before 
long,"  he  resumed,  ''I  shall  have  three  places  vacant, 
in  the  Lower  court  and  in  the  Imperial  court  of  Paris ; 
come  and  see  me  then,  and  choose  the  one  that  suits 
you.  Until  then,  work  hard ;  but  do  not  come  to  my 
court.  In  the  first  place,  I  am  overrun  with  work; 
and  in  the  next,  your  rivals  will  guess  your  intentions 
and  try  to  injure  you.  Cambaceres  and  I,  by  saying 
not  one  word  to  you  to-night,  were  protecting  you 
from  the  dangers  of  favoritism." 

As  the  minister  ended  these  words  the  carriage  drew 
up  on  the  Quai  des  Augustins.  The  young  barrister 
thanked  his  generous  protector  with  effusive  warmth 
of  heart,  and  rapped  loudly  on  the  door,  for  the  keen 
north  wind  blew  about  his  calves  with  wintry  rigor. 
Presently  an  old  porter  drew  the  cord,  and,  as  the 
young  man  entered,  he  called  to  him  in  a  wheezy 
voice :  — 

"Monsieur,  here  's  a  letter  for  you." 

The  young  man  took  it,  and  tried,  in  spite  of  the 
cold,  to  read  the  writing  by  the  paling  gleam  of  a 
street-lamp. 

"It  is  from  my  father! "  he  exclaimed,  taking  his 
candlestick  from  the  porter.  He  then  ran  rapidly  up 
to  his  room  and  read  the  following  letter ;  — 

"Take  the  mail  coach,  and,  if  you  get  here  promptly, 
your  fortune  is  made.  Mademoiselle  Ang^lique  Bon- 
tems  has  lost  her  sister;  she  is  now  the  only  child, 
and  we  know  that  she  does  not  hate  you.  Madame 
Bontems  will  probably  leave  her  forty  thousand  francs 
a  year  in  addition  to  her  dowry.    I  have  prepared  your 


A  Double  Life.  387 

way.  Our  friends  may  be  surprised  to  see  a  noble 
family  like  ours  ally  itself  with  the  Bontems.  It 
is  true  that  old  Bontems  was  a  bonnet  rouge  of  the 
deepest  dye,  who  got  possession  of  a  vast  amount  of 
the  national  property  for  almost  nothing.  But  in  the 
first  place,  what  he  got  was  the  property  of  monks 
who  will  never  return,  and  in  the  next,  inasmuch  as 
you  have  already  derogated  from  our  station  in  mak- 
ing yourself  a  barrister,  I  don't  see  why  we  should 
shrink  from  making  another  concession  to  modern 
ideas.  The  girl  will  have  three  hundred  thousand 
francs,  and  I  will  give  you  one  hundred  thousand; 
your  mother's  property  is  worth  a  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  more,  or  nearly  that.  Therefore,  my  dear 
son,  if  you  are  willing  to  enter  the  magistracy,  I  see 
you  in  a  fair  way  to  become  a  senator  like  the  rest 
of  them.  My  brother-in-law,  the  councillor  of  State, 
will  not  lend  a  hand  for  that,  I  know,  but  as  he  is  not 
married,  his  property  will  be  yours  some  day.  In 
reaching  that  position  you  perch  high  enough  to  watch 
events. 

"Adieu;  I  embrace  you." 

Young  de  Granville  went  to  bed  with  his  head  full 
of  projects,  each  one  more  delightful  than  the  last. 
Powerfully  protected  by  Cambaceres,  the  chief-justice, 
and  his  maternal  uncle,  who  was  one  of  the  construc- 
tors of  the  Code,  he  was  about  to  begin  his  career  in 
an  enviable  position  before  the  leading  court  of  France 
and  a  member  of  that  bar  from  which  Napoleon  was 
selecting  the  highest  functionaries  of  his  empire.  And 
now,  in  addition  to  these  prospects,  came  that  of  a 


388  A  Double  Life. 

fortune  sufficiently  brilliant  to  enable  him  to  sustain 
his  rank,  to  which  the  puny  revenue  of  five  thousand 
francs  which  he  derived  from  an  estate  left  him  by  his 
mother  would  not  have  sufficed. 

To  complete  his  dreams  of  ambition  came  those 
of  personal  happiness;  he  evoked  the  naive  face  of 
Mademoiselle  Angelique  Bontems,  the  companion  of 
his  childish  plays.  So  long  as  he  remained  a  mere 
child  his  father  and  mother  had  not  opposed  his  inti- 
macy with  the  pretty  daughter  of  their  country  neigh- 
bor; but  when,  during  his  short  visits  to  Bayeux  at 
the  time  of  his  college  vacations,  his  parents,  bigoted 
aristocrats,  noticed  his  affection  for  the  young  girl, 
they  forbade  him  to  think  of  her.  For  ten  years  past 
young  Granville  had  seldom  seen  his  former  com- 
panion, whom  he  called  his  "little  wife."  On  the  few 
occasions  when  the  young  pair  had  managed  to  evade 
the  watchfulness  of  their  families,  they  had  scarcely 
done  more  than  exchange  a  few  words  as  they  passed 
in  the  street  or  sat  near  each  other  in  church.  Their 
fortunate  days  were  those  when  they  met  at  some  rural 
fete,  called  in  Normandy  an  "assembly,"  when  they 
were  able  to  watch  each  other  furtively.  During  his 
last  vacation,  Granville  had  seen  Angelique  twice; 
and  the  lowered  eyes  and  dejected  look  of  his  "little 
wife  "  made  him  think  she  was  oppressed  by  some 
secret  despotism. 

The  morning  after  receiving  his  father's  letter,  the 
young  lawyer  appeared  at  the  coach  office  in  the  rue 
Notre-Dame  des  Victoires,  by  seven  o'clock,  and  was 
lucky  enough  to  get  a  seat  in  the  diligence  then 
starting  for  Caen. 


A  Double  Life.  389 

It  was  not  without  deep  emotion  that  the  new  bar- 
rister beheld  the  towers  of  the  cathedral  of  Bayeux. 
No  hope  of  his  life  had  yet  been  disappointed;  his 
heart  was  opening  to  all  the  noblest  sentiments  which 
stir  the  youthful  mind.  After  an  over-long  banquet 
of  welcome  with  his  father  and  a  few  old  friends,  the 
impatient  young  man  was  taken  to  a  certain  house  in 
the  rue  Teinture,  already  well-known  to  him.  His 
heart  beat  violently  as  his  father  —  who  was  still 
called  in  Bayeux  the  Comte  de  Granville  —  rapped 
loudly  at  a  porte-cochere,  the  green  paint  of  which 
was  peeling  off  in  scales. 

It  was  four  in  the  afternoon.  A  young  servant- 
girl,  wearing  a  cotton  cap,  saluted  the  gentlemen  with 
a  bob  courtesy,  and  replied  that  the  ladies  were  at 
vespers,  but  would  soon  be  heme.  The  count  and  his 
son  were  shown  into  a  lower  room  which  sei*ved  as  a 
salon  and  looked  like  the  parlor  of  a  convent.  Panels 
of  polished  walnut  darkened  the  room,  around  which 
a  few  chairs  covered  with  tapestry  were  symmetrically 
placed.  The  sole  ornament  of  the  stone  chimney- 
piece  was  a  green-hued  mirror,  from  either  side  of 
which  projected  the  twisted  arms  of  those  old-fashioned 
candelabra  made  at  the  time  of  the  Peace  of  Utrecht. 
On  the  panelled  wall  opposite  to  the  fireplace  young 
Granville  saw  an  enormous  crucifix  of  ebony  and 
ivory  weathed  with  consecrated  box. 

Though  lighted  by  three  windows,  which  looked  upon 
a  provincial  garden  of  symmetrical  square  beds  out- 
lined with  box,  the  room  was  so  dark  that  it  was  diflS- 
cult  to  distinguish  on  the  wall  opposite  to  the  windows 
three  church  pictures,  the  work  of  some  learned  artist, 


390  A  Double  Life. 

and  bought,  during  the  Revolution  no  doubt,  by  old 
Bontems,  who,  in  his  capacity  as  head  of  the  district, 
did  not  forget  his  own  interests. 

From  the  carefully  waxed  floor  to  the  curtains  of 
green  checked  linen  everything  shone  with  monastic 
cleanliness.  The  heart  of  the  young  man  was  chilled 
involuntarily  by  this  silent  retreat  in  which  Angelique 
lived.  His  recent  experience  of  the  brilliant  salons 
of  Paris  in  the  vortex  of  continual  fetes  had  easily 
effaced  from  his  mind  the  dull  and  placid  life  of  the 
provinces ;  the  contrast  was  now  so  abruptly  presented 
that  he  was  conscious  of  a  species  of  inward  repug- 
nance. To  come  from  a  reception  at  Cambace'res, 
where  life  was  so  ample,  where  intellects  had  breadth 
and  compass,  where  the  imperial  glory  was  so  vividly 
reflected,  and  to  fall  suddenly  into  a  circle  of  mean 
ideas  was  like  being  transported  from  Italy  to  Green- 
land. 

"To  live  here!  why,  it  is  not  living,"  he  said  in- 
wardly, as  he  looked  round  this  salon  of  methodism. 

The  old  count,  who  noted  the  surprise  on  his  son's 
face,  took  his  arm  and  led  him  to  a  window  where 
there  was  still  a  little  light,  and  while  the  woman  lit 
the  yellowed  candles  above  the  chimney-piece,  he  en- 
deavored to  disperse  the  clouds  that  this  aspect  of 
dulness  gathered  on  the  young  man's  brow. 

"Listen,  my  boy,"  he  said.  "The  widow  of  old 
Bontems  is  desperately  pious,  —  when  the  devil  gets 
old,  you  know!  I  see  that  the  odor  of  sanctity  is  too 
much  for  you.  Well,  now,  here 's  the  truth.  The  old 
woman  is  besieged  by  priests;  they  have  persuaded 
her  that  she  has  still  time  to  go  straight  to  heaven  j 


A  Double  Life.  391 

and  so,  to  make  sure  of  Saint  Peter  and  his  keys,  she 
buys  them.  She  goes  to  mass  every  day,  takes  the 
sacrament  every  Sunday  that  God  creates,  and  amuses 
herself  by  restoring  chapels.  She  has  given  the  cathe- 
dral so  many  ornaments,  albs,  and  copes,  she  has 
bedizened  the  canopy  with  such  loads  of  feathers  that 
the  last  procession  of  the  F^te-Dieu  brought  a  greater 
crowd  than  a  hanging,  merely  to  see  the  priests  so 
gorgeously  dressed  and  all  their  utensils  regilt.  This 
house,  my  boy,  is  holy  ground.  But  I  've  managed 
to  persuade  the  foolish  old  thing  not  to  give  those 
pictures  you  see  there  to  the  church;  one  is  a  Do- 
menichino,  the  other  two,  Correggio  and  Andrea  del 
Sarto,  — worth  a  great  deal  of  money." 

"But  Angelique?"  asked  the  young  man,  eagerly. 

*'If  you  don't  marry  her  Angelique  is  lost,"  replied 
the  count.  "Our  good  apostles  keep  advising  her  to 
be  a  virgin  and  martyr.  I  've  had  a  world  of  trouble 
to  rouse  her  little  heart  by  talking  of  you, —  ever  since 
she  became  an  only  child.  But  can't  you  see  that, 
once  married,  you  '11  take  her  to  Paris,  and  once  there 
fgtes,  and  marriage,  and  the  theatre  and  the  excite- 
ments of  Parisian  life  will  soon  make  her  forget  the 
confessionals  and  fasts,  hair-shirts  and  masses  on 
which  these  creatures  feed  ?  " 

"But  won't  the  fifty  thousand  francs  a  year  derived 
from  ecclesiastical  property  be  given  back  ?  " 

"Ah!  there's  the  rub,"  cried  the  count,  with  a 
knowing  look.  "In  consideration  of  this  maiTiage  — 
for  Madame  Bontems*  vanity  is  not  a  little  tickled  at 
the  idea  of  grafting  the  Bontems  on  the  genealogical 
tree  of  the  Granvilles  —  the  said  mother  gives  her 


392  A  Double  Life. 

fortune  outright  to  her  daughter,  reserving  to  herself 
only  a  life- interest  in  it.  Of  course  the  clergy  oppose 
the  marriage ;  but  I  have  had  the  banns  published ;  all 
is  ready ;  in  a  week  you  '11  be  out  of  the  claws  of  the 
old  woman  and  her  abbes.  You  '11  get  the  prettiest 
girl  in  Bayeux,  —  a  little  duck  who  '11  never  give  you 
any  trouble,  for  she  has  principles.  She  has  been 
mortified  in  the  flesh,  as  they  say  in  their  jargon,  by 
fasts  and  prayers,  and,"  he  added,  in  a  low  voice, 
*'by  her  mother." 

A  rap  discreetly  given  to  the  door  silenced  the 
count,  who  expected  to  see  the  two  ladies  enter.  A 
young  servant-lad  with  an  air  of  important  business 
entered,  but,  intimidated  by  the  sight  of  two  strangers, 
be  made  a  sign  to  the  woman,  who  went  up  to  him. 
The  lad  wore  a  blue  jacket  with  short  tails  which 
flapped  about  his  hips,  and  blue  and  white  striped 
trousers;  his  hair  was  cut  round,  and  his  face  was 
that  of  a  choir-boy,  so  expressive  was  it  of  that  forced 
compunction  which  all  the  members  of  a  devote  house- 
hold acquire. 

**  Mademoiselle  Gatienne,  do  you  know  where  the 
books  for  the  Office  of  the  Virgin  are  ?  The  ladies  of 
the  congregation  of  the  Sacre-Coeur  are  to  make  a 
procession  this  evening  in  the  church." 

Gatienne  went  to  fetch  the  books. 

**WilI  it  take  long,  my  little  friar?"  asked  the 
count. 

*'0h!  not  more  than  half  an  hour." 

"Suppose  we  go  and  see  it;  lots  of  pretty  women," 
said  the  father  to  the  son.  "Besides,  a  visit  to  the 
cathedral  won't  do  us  any  harm  " 


A  Double  Life.  393 

The  young  lawyer  followed  bis  father  with  an  iiTeso- 
lute  air. 

"What 's  the  matter  with  you?  "  asked  the  count. 

"Well,  the  fact  is,  father,  that  I  — I  — I  think  I  am 
right." 

"But  you  haven't  yet  said  anything." 

"True;  but  I  have  been  thinking  that  having  saved 
a  part  of  your  former  fortune  you  will  leave  it  to  me 
some  day,  and  a  long  day  hence  I  hope.  Now  if  you 
are  willing  to  give  me,  as  you  say,  a  hundred  thousand 
francs  to  make  this  marriage,  which  may  be  a  foolish 
one,  I  'd  rather  take  fifty  thousand  to  escape  unhappi- 
ness  and  stay  a  bachelor.  Even  so  I  shall  have  a  for- 
tune equal  to  that  which  Mademoiselle  Bontems  will 
bring  me." 

"Are  you  crazy?" 

"No,  father.  Here  is  what  I  mean.  The  chief- 
justice  promised  me  two  days  ago  an  appointment  at 
the  Paris  bar.  Fifty  thousand  francs  joined  to  what 
I  now  possess,  together  with  the  salary  of  the  place, 
will  give  me  an  income  of  twelve  thousand  francs; 
and  I  should  undoubtedly  have  opportunities  of  for- 
tune far  preferable  to  those  of  a  marriage  which  may 
prove  as  poor  in  happiness  as  it  is  rich  in  means." 

"I  see  plainly,"  said  his  father,  laughing,  "that 
you  never  lived  under  the  ancien  regime.  Did  we  of 
that  day  ever  trouble  ourselves  about  our  wives,  I  'd 
like  to  know?" 

"  But,  father,  marriage  has  become  in  our  day  —  " 

"  Ah  ga  I "  said  the  count,  interrupting  his  son, 
"then  all  is  true  that  my  old  friends  of  the  emigration 
used  to  tell  me?    Has  the  Revolution  bequeathed  us 


394  A  DouUe  Life. 

nothing  but  life  without  gayety,  infecting  the  youth 
of  France  with  equivocal  principles?  Are  you  going 
to  talk  to  me,  like  my  brother-in-law  the  Jacobin,  of 
the  Nation,  and  public  morality,  and  disinterested- 
ness? Good  heavens!  without  the  Emperor's  sisters 
what  would  become  of  us  ?  " 

The  old  man,  still  vigorous,  whom  the  peasants  on 
his  property  continued  to  call  the  Seigneur  de  Gran- 
ville, concluded  these  words  as  they  entered  the  cathe- 
dral. Disregarding  the  sanctity  of  the  place,  he 
hummed  an  air  from  the  opera  of  "Rose  et  Colas" 
while  taking  the  holy  water;  then  he  led  his  son  along 
the  lateral  aisles,  stopping  at  each  column  to  examine 
the  rows  of  heads,  lined  up  like  those  of  soldiers  on 
parade. 

The  special  office  of  the  Sacr^-Coeur  was  about  to 
begin.  The  ladies  belonging  to  that  society  had 
gathered  near  the  choir;  the  count  and  his  son  moved 
on  to  that  part  of  the  nave  and  stood  leaning  against 
a  column  in  the  darkest  corner,  whence  they  could  see 
the  entire  mass  of  heads,  which  bore  some  resemblance 
to  a  meadow  studded  with  flowers. 

Suddenly,  within  a  few  feet  of  young  Granville,  the 
sweetest  voice  he  could  conceive  a  human  being  to 
possess  rose  like  the  song  of  the  first  nightingale 
after  a  dreary  winter.  Though  accompanied  by  other 
women's  voices  and  the  tones  of  the  organ,  that  voice 
stirred  his  nerves  as  if  they  had  been  suddenly  assailed 
by  the  too  rich,  too  keen  notes  of  an  harmonica.  The 
Parisian  turned  round  and  saw  a  young  girl  whose  face, 
from  the  bowed  attitude  of  the  head,  was  completely 
hidden  in  a  large  bonnet  of  some  white  material.     He 


A  Double  Life.  395 

felt  it  was  from  her  that  this  clear  melody  proceeded ; 
he  fancied  that  he  recognized  Angelique  in  spite  of 
the  brown  pelisse  which  wrapped  her  figure,  and  he 
nudged  his  father's  arm. 

"Yes,  that 's  she,"  said  the  count,  after  looking  in 
the  direction  his  son  had  pointed  out. 

The  old  gentleman  showed  by  a  gesture  the  pale 
face  of  an  elderly  woman  whose  eyes,  encircled  by 
dark  lines,  had  already  taken  note  of  the  strangers, 
though  her  deceitful  glance  seemed  never  to  have  left 
her  prayer-book. 

Angelique  raised  her  head  toward  the  altar,  as  if  to 
inhale  the  penetrating  perfume  of  the  incense,  clouds 
of  which  were  floating  near  the  women.  By  the  mys- 
terious gleams  cast  from  the  tapers,  the  lamp  of  the 
nave,  and  a  few  wax-candles  fastened  to  the  columns, 
the  young  man  saw  a  sight  which  shook  his  resolu- 
tions. A  white  silk  bonnet  framed  a  face  of  charming 
regularity,  ending  the  oval  by  a  bow  of  satin  ribbon 
beneath  the  dimpled  chin.  Above  a  narrow  but  deli- 
cate forehead  the  pale  gold  hair  was  parted  into  bands 
which  came  down  upon  her  cheeks  like  the  shadow  of 
foliage  on  a  bunch  of  flowers.  The  arches  of  the  eye- 
brows were  drawn  with  the  precision  so  much  admired 
on  beautiful  Chinese  faces.  The  nose,  almost  aqui- 
line, possessed  an  unusual  firmness  of  outline,  and 
the  lips  were  like  two  rosy  lines  traced  by  love's  most 
delicate  implement.  The  eyes,  of  a  pale,  clear  blue, 
were  expressive  of  purity. 

Though  Granville  remarked  a  sort  of  rigid  silence 
upon  this  charming  face,  he  could  readily  assign  it  to 
the  feelings  of  devotion  that  were  then  in  the  giii's 


396  A  Double  Life. 

soul.  The  sacred  words  of  the  prayer  passed  from 
those  rosy  lips  in  a  cloud,  as  it  were,  of  perfume, 
which  the  cold  of  the  church  sent  visibly  into  the 
atmosphere.  Involuntarily,  the  young  man  bent  for- 
ward to  breathe  that  divine  exhalation.  The  move- 
ment attracted  the  girl's  attention,  and  her  eyes, 
hitherto  fixed  on  the  altar,  turned  toward  Granville. 
The  dim  light  showed  him  to  her  indistinctly,  but  she 
recognized  the  companion  of  her  childhood ;  a  memory 
more  powerful  than  prayer  brought  a  vivid  brilliancy 
to  her  face,  and  she  blushed.  The  young  man  quivered 
with  joy  as  the  emotions  of  another  life  were  visibly 
vanquished  by  emotions  of  love,  and  the  solemnity  of 
the  sanctuary  seemed  eclipsed  by  earthly  memories. 
But  his  triumph  was  soon  over.  Angelique  lowered 
her  veil,  recovered  a  calm  countenance,  and  began 
once  more  to  sing  without  a  thrill  in  her  voice  that 
showed  the  least  emotion.  But  Granville  found  him- 
self under  the  thraldom  of  a  new  desire,  and  all  his 
ideas  of  prudence  vanished. 

By  the  time  the  service  was  over  his  impatience  had 
become  so  great  that  without  allowing  the  ladies  to 
return  home  he  went  up  at  once  to  greet  his  "little 
wife."  A  recognition  that  was  shy  on  both  sides  took 
place  in  the  porch  of  the  cathedral  under  the  eyes  of  the 
faithful.  Madame  Bontems  trembled  with  pride  as  she 
took  the  arm  which  the  Comte  de  Granville,  much 
provoked  by  his  son's  scarcely  decent  impatience, 
was  forced  to  offer  her  before  the  eyes  of  all  present. 

During  the  fifteen  days  that  now  elapsed  between 
the  oflScial  presentation  of  the  young  Vicomte  de  Gran- 
ville as  the  accepted  suitor  of  Mademoiselle  Angelique 


A  Double  Life.  397 

Bontems  and  the  solemn  day  of  the  marriage,  the 
young  man  came  assiduously  to  visit  his  love  in  the 
gloomy  parlor,  to  which  he  grew  accustomed.  These 
long  visits  were  partly  made  for  the  purpose  of  watch- 
ing Angelique's  nature;  for  Granville's  prudence  re- 
vived on  the  day  after  that  first  interview.  He  always 
found  his  future  wife  seated  before  a  little  table  of 
Santa  Lucia  wood,  employed  in  marking  the  linen 
of  her  trousseau.  Angdlique  never  spoke  first  of 
religion.  If  the  young  lawyer  began  to  play  with  the 
beads  of  the  handsome  rosary  which  lay  beside  her  in 
a  crimson  velvet  bag,  if  he  smiled  as  he  looked  at  a 
relic  which  always  accompanied  that  instrument  of 
devotion,  Angelique  would  take  the  chaplet  gently 
from  his  hands,  giving  him  a  supplicating  look ;  then, 
without  a  word,  she  replaced  it  in  its  bag  and  locked 
them  up.  If,  occasionally  (to  test  her),  Granville 
risked  some  objecting  remark  against  certain  prac- 
tices of  religion,  the  pretty  creature  would  listen  to 
him  with  the  settled  smile  of  fixed  conviction  on  her 
lips. 

"We  must  either  believe  nothing,  or  believe  all  that 
the  Church  teaches,"  she  replied.  *' Would  you  wish  a 
girl  without  religion  for  the  mother  of  your  children  ? 
No.  What  man  would  dare  to  judge  between  God 
and  the  unbelievers?  Can  I  blame  what  the  Church 
enjoins?" 

Ang(51ique  seemed  so  inspired  by  fervent  charity, 
Granville  saw  her  turn  such  penetrating  and  beseech- 
ing glances  on  him,  that  he  was  several  times  tempted 
to  embrace  her  religion.  The  profound  conviction  she 
felt  of  walking  in  the  ti'ue  and  only  path  awoke  in.  the 


398  A  Double  Life. 

heart  of  the  future  magistrate  certain  doubts  of  which 
she  endeavored  to  make  the  most. 

Granville  then  committed  the  enormous  fault  of 
mistaking  the  signs  of  an  eager  desire  for  those  of 
love.  Angelique  was  so  pleased  to  unite  the  voice 
of  her  heart  with  that  of  her  duty,  in  yielding  to  an 
inclination  she  had  felt  from  childhood,  that  the  young 
man,  misled,  did  not  distinguish  which  of  the  two 
voices  was  the  stronger.  Are  not  all  young  men 
primarily  disposed  to  trust  the  promises  of  a  pretty 
face,  and  to  infer  beauty  of  soul  from  beauty  of 
feature?  An  indefinable  feeling  leads  them  to  believe 
that  moral  perfection  must  coincide  with  physical  per- 
fection. If  her  religion  had  not  permitted  Angelique 
to  yield  to  her  feelings  they  would  soon  have  dried  up 
in  her  heart  like  a  plant  watered  with  an  acid.  Could 
a  lover  beloved  become  aware  of  the  secret  fanaticism 
of  the  girl's  nature? 

Such  was  the  history  of  young  Granville's  feelings 
during  this  fortnight,  devoured  like  a  book  whose 
denouement  is  absorbing.  Angelique,  attentively 
studied,  seemed  to  him  the  gentlest  of  womankind, 
and  he  even  found  himself  giving  thanks  to  Madame 
Bontems,  who,  by  inculcating  the  principles  of  religion 
so  strongly  in  her  daughter,  had  trained  her,  as  it 
were,  to  meet  the  trials  of  life. 

On  the  day  appointed  for  the  signing  of  the  mar- 
riage contract  Madame  Bontems  made  her  son-in-law 
swear  solemnly  to  respect  the  religious  practices  of 
her  daughter,  to  allow  her  absolute  liberty  of  con- 
science, to  let  her  take  the  sacrament  and  go  to  church 
and  to  confession  as  often  as  she  pleased,  and  never 


A  Double  Life.  399 

to  oppose  her  in  her  choice  of  a  confessor.  At  this 
solemn  moment  Angelique  looked  at  her  future  hus- 
band with  so  pure  and  innocent  an  air  that  Granville 
did  not  hesitate  to  take  the  required  oath.  A  smile 
flickered  on  the  lips  of  the  Abbe  Fontanon,  the  pallid 
priest  who  directed  the  consciences  of  the  family. 
With  a  slight  motion  of  her  head,  Mademoiselle 
Bontems  promised  her  lover  never  to  make  an  ill  use 
of  that  liberty  of  conscience.  As  for  the  old  count, 
he  whistled  under  his  breath,  to  the  tune  of  "Va-t-en 
voir  s'ils  viennent." 

After  the  proper  number  of  days  granted  to  the 
retours  de  noces^  customary  in  the  provinces,  Gran- 
ville returned  with  his  wife  to  Paris,  where  the  young 
lawyer  was  now  appointed  as  substitute  to  perform 
the  duties  of  attorney-general  to  the  imperial  court 
of  the  Seine.  When  the  new  couple  began  to  look 
about  them  for  a  residence,  Angelique  employed  the 
influence  possessed  by  every  woman  during  the  honey- 
moon to  induce  Granville  to  take  a  large  apartment  on 
the  ground-floor  of  a  house  which  formed  the  corner 
of  the  rue  Vieille-du-Temple  and  the  rue  Neuve-Saint- 
Fran^ois.  The  principal  reason  for  her  choice  was 
the  fact  that  this  house  was  close  to  the  rue  d' Orleans, 
in  which  was  a  church,  and  it  was  also  near  a  small 
chapel  in  the  rue  Saint-Louis. 

"A  good  housekeeper  makes  proper  provision,"  said 
her  husband,  laughing. 

Angelique  begged  him  to  observe  that  the  Marais 
quarter  was  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Palais  de  Jus- 
tice, and  that  the  magistrates  he  had  just  called  upon 
lived  there.     A  large  garden  gave,  for  a  young  house- 


400  A  DouUe  Life, 

bold,  an  additional  value  to  the  residence,  —  their  chil- 
dren, "if  heaven  sent  them  any,"  could  play  there;  the 
court-yard  was  spacious,  and  the  stables  were  fine. 
Granville  would  much  have  preferred  a  house  in  the 
Chaussee-d'Antin,  where  everything  was  young  and 
lively,  where  the  fashions  appear  in  all  their  novelty, 
where  the  neighboring  population  is  elegant,  and  the 
distance  less  to  theatres  and  other  sources  of  amuse- 
ment. But  he  found  himself  forced  to  yield  to  the 
persuasions  of  a  young  wife  making  her  first  request, 
and  thus,  solely  to  please  her,  he  buried  himself  in 
the  Marais. 

Granville's  new  functions  required  an  assiduous 
labor,  all  the  more  because  they  were  new  to  him ;  he 
therefore  gave  his  first  thought  to  the  furnishing  of 
his  study  and  the  aiTangement  of  his  library,  where 
he  quickly  installed  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  mass 
of  documents,  leaving  his  young  wife  to  direct  the 
decoration  of  the  rest  of  the  house.  He  threw  the 
responsibility  of  these  purchases,  usually  a  source  of 
pleasure  and  tender  recollection  to  young  wives,  the 
more  willingly  upon  Angelique  because  he  was  ashamed 
of  depriving  her  of  his  presence  far  more  than  the 
rules  of  the  honeymoon  permitted.  But  after  he  had 
thoroughly  settled  to  his  work,  the  young  official 
allowed  his  wife  to  entice  him  out  of  his  study  and 
show  him  the  effect  of  the  furniture  and  decorations, 
which  so  far  he  had  only  seen  piecemeal. 

If  it  is  true,  as  the  adage  says,  that  we  may  judge 
of  a  woman  by  the  door  of  her  house,  the  rooms  of 
that  house  must  reveal  her  mind  with  even  more 
fidelity.     Whether  it  was  that  Madame  de  Granville 


A  Double  Life.  401 

had  given  her  custom  to  tradesmen  without  any  taste, 
or  that  her  own  nature  was  inscribed  on  the  quantity 
of  things  ordered  by  her,  certain  it  is  that  the  young 
husband  was  astonished  at  the  dreariness  and  cold 
solemnity  that  reigned  in  the  new  home.  He  saw 
nothing  graceful;  all  was  discord;  no  pleasure  was 
granted  to  the  eye.  The  spirit  of  formality  and  petti- 
ness which  characterized  the  parlor  at  Bayeux  reap- 
peared in  the  Parisian  salon  beneath  ceilings  and 
cornices  decorated  with  commonplace  arabesques,  the 
long  convoluted  strands  of  which  were  in  execrable 
taste. 

With  the  desire  to  exonerate  his  wife,  the  young 
man  retraced  his  steps  and  examined  once  more  the 
long  and  lofty  antechamber  through  which  the  apart- 
ment was  entered.  The  color  of  the  woodwork,  chosen 
by  his  wife,  was  much  too  sombre;  the  dark-green 
velvet  that  covered  the  benches  only  added  to  the  dul- 
ness  of  the  room,  —  of  no  great  importance,  to  be  sure, 
except  as  it  gave  an  idea  of  the  rest  of  the  house; 
just  as  we  often  judge  of  a  man's  mind  by  his  first 
words.  An  antechamber  is  a  species  of  preface  which 
announces  all,  but  pledges  nothing.  The  young  man 
asked  himself  if  his  wife  could  really  have  chosen  the 
lamp  in  the  form  of  an  antique  lantern  which  hung  in 
the  middle  of  this  barren  hall,  that  was  paved  with 
black  and  white  marble  and  hung  with  a  paper  imitat- 
ing blocks  of  stone  with  here  and  there  green  patches 
of  simulated  moss  and  lichen.  A  large  but  old  barom- 
eter hung  in  the  centre  of  one  of  the  panels  as  if  to 
make  the  barrenness  of  the  place  more  visible. 

The  husband  looked  at  his  wife;   he  saw  her  so 


402  A  Bouhle  Life, 

satisfied  with  the  red  trimmiiigs  that  edged  the  cotton 
curtains,  so  pleased  with  the  barometer  and  the  decent 
statue  which  adorned  the  top  of  a  huge  gothic  stove, 
that  he  had  not  the  barbarous  courage  to  destroy 
those  fond  illusions.  Instead  of  condemning  his  wife, 
Granville  condemned  himself;  he  blamed  his  neglect 
of  his  first  duty,  which  was  surely  to  guide  the  steps 
of  a  girl  brought  up  in  Bayeux  and  ignorant  of  Paris. 
After  this  specimen,  the  reader  can  easily  imagine 
the  decoration  of  the  other  rooms.  What  could  be 
expected  of  a  young  woman  who  took  fright  at  the 
legs  of  a  caryatide,  and  rejected  with  disgust  a  cande- 
labrum or  a  bit  of  furniture  if  the  nudity  of  an 
Egyptian  torso  appeared  upon  it.  At  this  period  the 
school  of  David  had  reached  the  apex  of  its  fame; 
everything  in  France  felt  the  influence  of  the  correct- 
ness of  his  drawing  and  his  love  for  antique  forms, 
which  made  his  painting,  as  one  might  say,  a  species 
of  colored  sculpture.  But  none  of  the  inventions  of 
imperial  luxury  obtained  a  place  in  Madame  de  Gran- 
ville's home.  The  vast  square  salon  retained  the  white 
paint  and  the  faded  gilding  of  the  Louis  XV.  period, 
in  which  the  architects  were  prodigal  of  those  insuf- 
ferable festoons  due  to  the  sterile  fecundity  of  the 
designers  of  that  epoch.  If  the  slightest  harmony 
had  reigned,  if  the  articles  of  furniture  had  taken,  in 
modern  mahogany,  the  twisted  forms  brought  into 
fashion  by  the  corrupted  taste  of  Boucher,  Angelique's 
house  would  merely  have  offered  the  odd  contrast  of 
young  people  living  in  the  nineteenth  century  as  if 
they  belonged  to  the  eighteenth ;  but  no,  —  a  mass 
of  heterogeneous  things  produced  the  most  ridiculous 


A  Double  Life.  403 

anachronisms.  The  consoles,  clocks,  and  candelabra 
represented  warriors  and  their  attributes,  which  the 
triumphs  of  the  Empire  had  rendered  dear  to  Paris. 
Greek  helmets,  Roman  broad-swords,  shields  due  to 
military  enthusiasm  which  now  decorated  the  most 
pacific  articles  of  furniture  were  little  in  accordance 
with  the  delicate  and  prolix  arabesques,  the  delight 
of  Madame  de  Pompadour.  Pietistic  devotion  carries 
with  it  a  sort  of  wearisome  humility,  which  does  not 
exclude  pride.  Whether  from  modesty  or  natural 
inclination,  Madame  de  Granville  seemed  to  have  a 
horror  for  light  or  gay  colors.  Perhaps  she  thought 
that  brown  and  purple  comported  best  with  the  dignity 
of  a  magistrate.  How  could  a  young  girl  accustomed 
to  an  austere  life  conceive  of  those  luxurious  sofas, 
those  elegant  and  treacherous  boudoirs  where  pleasures 
and  dangers  take  their  rise? 

The  poor  magistrate  was  in  despair.  By  the  tone 
of  approbation  with  which  he  echoed  the  praises  which 
his  wife  was  bestowing  upon  herself  she  perceived  that 
she  had  not  pleased  him;  and  she  showed  such  grief 
at  her  failure  that  the  amorous  Granville  saw  another 
proof  of  love  for  him  in  her  excessive  pain,  instead  of 
seeing  what  it  really  was,  —  a  wound  to  her  self-love. 
A  young  girl  suddenly  taken  from  the  mediocrity  of 
provincial  ideas,  unaccustomed  to  the  coquetry  and 
elegance  of  Parisian  life,  could  she  have  done  better? 
The  young  husband  preferred  to  believe  that  the  choice 
of  his  wife  had  been  guided  by  her  tradesmen,  rather 
than  admit  to  himself  what  was  really  the  truth.  Less 
loving,  he  would  have  felt  that  the  dealers,  quick  to 
divine  the  thoughts  of  their  customers,  must  have 


404  A  Double  Life. 

blessed  heaven  for  sending  them  a  young  devote  de- 
void of  taste,  who  enabled  them  to  get  rid  of  things 
that  were  otherwise  unsalable.  As  it  was,  he  did  his 
best  to  console  his  wife. 

"Happiness,  my  dear  Angelique,  doesn't  depend  on 
furniture  that  is  more  or  less  elegant;  it  depends  on 
the  sweetness  and  kindness  and  love  of  a  woman." 

"It  is  my  duty  to  love  you;  and  no  duty  can  ever 
please  me  as  much,"  replied  Angelique,  softly. 

Nature  has  put  into  a  woman's  heart  so  great  a 
desire  to  please,  so  great  a  need  of  love,  that  even  in 
a  bigoted  young  girl  ideas  of  a  future  life  and  of 
working  for  salvation  must  succumb  in  some  degree 
to  the  first  joys  of  marriage.  So  that,  since  the  month 
of  April,  the  period  at  which  they  were  married,  until 
the  beginning  of  the  winter,  the  married  pair  had 
enjoyed  a  perfect  union.  Love  and  work  have  the 
virtue  of  making  a  man  indifferent  to  external  mat- 
ters. Obliged  to  spend  half  the  day  at  the  Palais  de 
Justice,  required  to  debate  the  solemn  interests  of  the 
life  or  fate  of  men,  Granville  was  less  likely  than 
other  husbands  to  see  or  know  what  went  on  within 
his  own  household.  If  on  Fridays  his  table  was 
served  with  a  maigre  dinner,  if  by  chance  he  asked 
for  a  dish  of  meat  without  obtaining  it,  his  wife, 
forbidden  by  the  Gospels  to  tell  a  lie,  contrived  by 
various  little  deceptions  (allowable  in  the  interests  of 
religion)  to  make  her  premeditated  purpose  appear 
like  an  act  of  forgetfulness  or  the  result  of  an  empty 
market;  she  excused  herself  often  by  throwing  the 
blame  upon  her  cook,  and  even  went  so  far  on  one 
occasion  as  to  scold  him  for  it.     At  this  period  young 


A  Double  Life,  405 

magistrates  were  not  in  the  habit  of  keeping  fasts, 
Ember-days,  and  vigils  as  they  do  in  our  time;  Gran- 
ville therefore  did  not  at  first  notice  the  periodicity  of 
his  maigre  meals,  which  his  wife,  moreover,  took  wily 
care  to  make  extremely  delicate  by  means  of  teal, 
wild-duck,  and  fish,  the  amphibious  flesh  of  which,  or 
the  careful  seasoning,  deceived  his  taste. 

Thus  the  young  magistrate  lived,  without  being 
aware  of  it,  in  an  orthodox  manner,  and  earned  his 
salvation  unknown  to  himself.  On  week-days  he  did 
not  know  if  his  wife  went  to  church  or  not.  On  Sun- 
days, by  a  very  natural  courtesy,  he  accompanied  her 
to  mass  as  if  to  reward  her  for  occasionally  sacri- 
ficing vespers  to  be  with  him ;  he  therefore  did  not  at 
first  realize  the  rigidity  of  his  wife's  pious  habits. 
Theatres  being  intolerable  in  summer  on  account  of 
the  heat,  Granville  had  no  occasion  to  ask  his  wife 
to  go  there ;  the  serious  question  of  theatre-going  was, 
therefore,  not  mooted.  In  the  first  months  of  a  mar- 
riage to  which  a  man  has  been  led  by  the  beauty  of 
a  young  girl,  he  is  never  exacting  in  his  demands; 
youth  is  more  eager  than  discriminating.  How  could 
he  see  the  coldness,  the  reserve,  the  frigidity  of  a 
woman  to  whom  he  attributed  a  warmth  of  enthusiasm 
equal  to  his  own?  It  is  necessary  to  reach  a  certain 
conjugal  tranquillity  before  perceiving  that  a  true 
devote  accepts  a  man's  love  with  her  arms  crossed. 
Granville,  thus  in  the  dark,  regarded  himself  as  suflS- 
ciently  happy  until  a  fatal  event  came  to  influence  the 
future  of  his  marriage. 

In  the  month  of  September,  1808,  the  canon  of  the 
cathedral  at  Bayeux,  who  had  formerly  directed  the 


406  A  Double  Life. 

consciences  of  Madame  Bontems  and  her  daughter 
came  to  Paris,  led  by  an  ambition  to  obtain  a  post 
in  one  of  the  great  churches,  no  doubt  considering  it 
as  the  stepping-stone  to  a  bishopric.  In  recovering 
his  former  power  over  his  lamb  he  shuddered,  as  he 
said,  to  find  her  already  so  changed  by  the  air  of 
Paris ;  and  he  set  himself  to  the  work  of  drawing  her 
back  to  his  chilly  fold.  Frightened  by  the  remon- 
strances of  the  ex-canon,  —  a  man  about  thirty- 
eight  years  old,  who  brought  into  the  midst  of  the 
enlightened  and  tolerant  clergy  of  Paris  the  harsh- 
ness of  provincial  Catholicism,  with  its  inflexible  big- 
otry, whose  manifold  exactions  are  so  many  shackles 
to  timid  souls,  —  Madame  de  Granville  repented  of 
her  sins  and  returned  to  her  Jansenism. 

It  would  be  wearisome  to  describe,  step  by  step,  the 
incidents  which  led  insensibly  to  unhappiness  within 
the  bosom  of  the  Granville  household ;  it  will  perhaps 
suffice  to  relate  the  principal  facts  without  being  scru- 
pulous to  give  them  their  proper  order  and  sequence. 
The  first  misunderstanding  between  the  young  couple 
was,  however,  sufficiently  striking  to  be  carefully 
related  here. 

\Yhen  Granville  wished  to  take  his  wife  into  society 
she  never  refused  any  staid  receptions,  or  dinners, 
concerts,  and  assemblies  at  the  houses  of  magistrates 
ranking  above  her  husband  in  the  judicial  hierarchy ; 
but  she  contrived,  for  a  long  time,  under  pretext  of  a 
headache  or  other  illness,  to  avoid  a  ball.  One  day 
Granville,  impatient  at  last  with  these  wilful  excuses, 
suppressed  the  written  notice  of  a  ball  at  the  house  of 
a  councillor  of  State,  and  deceived  his  wife  by  a  ver- 


A  Double  Life.  407 

bal  invitation.  When  the  evening  came  her  health 
was  not  in  question,  and  he  took  her,  for  the  first  time, 
to  a  really  magnificent  fete. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  after  their  return,  obsei'ving 
her  depressed  air,  which  annoyed  him,  **your  position 
as  my  wife,  the  rank  to  which  you  are  entitled  in 
society,  and  the  fortune  you  enjoy,  impose  obligations 
upon  you  which  you  cannot  escape.  You  ought  to  go 
with  me  into  society,  especially  to  large  balls,  and 
appear  there  in  a  suitable  manner." 

''But,  my  dear  friend,  what  was  there  so  unsuitable 
in  my  dress?  " 

"I  did  not  refer  to  your  dress,  my  dear,  but  to  your 
manner.  When  a  young  man  came  up  to  speak  to 
you,  you  grew  so  distant  that  a  foolish  observer  might 
have  thought  that  you  feared  for  your  virtue.  You 
seemed  to  think  that  a  smile  would  compromise  you; 
you  really  appeared  to  be  asking  God  to  forgive  the 
sins  of  the  persons  who  surrounded  you.  The  world, 
my  dear  angel,  is  not  a  convent.  As  you  yourself 
have  mentioned  dress,  I  will  also  say  that  it  is  a  duty 
in  your  position  to  follow  the  fashions  and  usages  of 
society." 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  show  my  shape  like  those 
brazen  women  I  saw  last  night,  who  wore  their  gowns 
so  low  that  any  one  could  plunge  his  immodest  eyes  on 
their  bare  shoulders  and  —  " 

"There  's  a  difference,  my  dear,  between  uncovering 
the  whole  bust  and  giving  grace  and  charm  to  the 
figure,"  said  the  husband,  interrupting  the  wife. 
"You  wore  three  rows  of  tulle  ruches  swathing  your 
neck  up  to  your  chin.     You  really  seem  to  have  beggecj 


408  A  Double  Life. 

your  dressmaker  to  destroy  the  grace  of  your  shoulders 
and  the  outline  of  your  bust  with  as  much  care  as  a 
coquettish  woman  puts  into  the  choice  of  becoming 
garments.  Your  neck  was  buried  under  such  innu- 
merable pleats  and  folds  that  people  laughed  last  night 
at  your  affected  modesty.  You  would  be  horrified  if 
I  repeated  to  you  the  unpleasant  things  that  were  said 
of  you." 

"Those  to  whom  such  obscenities  are  pleasing  will 
not  be  burdened  by  the  weight  of  my  sins,"  replied 
the  young  wife,  dryly. 

"You  did  not  dance,"  said  Granville. 

"I  shall  never  dance,"  she  replied. 

"But  if  I  say  that  you  ought  to  dance?  "  said  the 
Magistrate,  hastily.  "Yes,  you  ought  to  follow  the 
fashions,  wear  flowers  in  your  hair,  and  diamonds. 
Beflect,  my  dear,  that  rich  people,  and  we  are  rich, 
are  bound  to  maintain  the  luxury  of  a  State.  Is  n't  it 
better  to  keep  the  manufactories  busy  and  prosperous 
than  spend  your  money  in  alms,  through  the  clergy  ?  " 

"You  talk  like  a  politician,"  said  Angelique. 

"And  you  like  a  churchman,"  he  replied,  shai-ply. 

The  discussion  now  became  very  bitter.  Madame 
de  Granville  put  into  her  answers,  which  were  very 
gentle,  and  uttered  in  tones  as  clear  as  the  tinkling  of 
a  bell,  a  stolid  obstinacy  which  betrayed  the  sacerdotal 
influence.  She  claimed  the  rights  which  Granville's 
promise  secured  to  her,  and  told  him  that  her  con- 
fessor had  expressly  forbidden  her  to  go  to  balls.  In 
reply  Granville  endeavored  to  prove  to  her  that  the 
priest  was  exceeding  the  rights  of  his  office  according 
to  the  regulations  of  the  Church  itself. 


A  Double  Life.  409 

This  odious  dispute  was  renewed  with  far  more 
violence  and  acrimony  on  both  sides  when  Granville 
wished  his  wife  to  accompany  him  to  the  theatre. 
Finally  the  husband,  for  the  sole  purpose  of  breaking 
down  the  pernicious  influence  exercised  by  the  con- 
fessor, brought  the  quarrel  to  such  a  pitch  that  Madame 
de  Granville,  driven  to  bay,  wrote  to  the  court  of 
Rome  to  inquire  whether  a  woman  could,  without 
losing  her  salvation,  wear  a  low  dress  and  go  to  the 
theatre  to  please  her  husband.  An  answer  was 
promptly  returned  by  the  venerable  Pius  VII.,  who 
strongly  condemned  the  wife's  resistance  and  blamed 
the  confessor.  This  letter,  a  true  conjugal  catechism, 
seemed  as  if  it  were  dictated  by  the  tender  voice  of 
Fenelon,  whose  grace  and  sweetness  emanated  from 
it.  "A  wife,"  it  said,  *'is  in  her  right  place  wherever 
her  husband  takes  her."  "If  she  commits  a  sin  by 
his  order,  it  is  not  she  who  will  answer  for  that 
sin."  These  two  passages  in  the  pope's  homily  made 
Madame  de  Granville  and  her  confessor  accuse  the 
pontiff  of  irreligion. 

Before  the  letter  arrived,  Granville  had  discovered 
the  strict  observance  of  the  ecclesiastical  laws  of  fast- 
ing, which  his  wife  now  imposed  upon  him  more 
openly;  and  he  gave  orders  to  the  servants  that  he 
himself  was  to  be  seiTed  with  meat  daily.  Notwith- 
standing the  extreme  displeasure  which  this  order 
caused  his  wife,  Granville,  to  whom  feast  or  fast 
was  of  little  real  consequence,  maintained  it  with 
virile  firmness.  The  feeblest  of  thinking  creatures  is 
wounded  in  his  inmost  being  when  another  will  than 
his  own  imposes  secretly  a  thing  he  would  have  done 


410  A  Double  Life. 

of  his  own  monition  willingly.  Of  all  tyrannies,  the 
most  odious  is  that  which  deprives  the  soul  of  the 
merit  of  its  actions  and  its  thoughts ;  the  mind  is  made 
to  abdicate  without  having  reigned.  The  sweetest 
word  to  say,  the  tenderest  feeling  to  express,  die  on 
our  lips  when  we  think  they  are  compulsory. 

Before  long  the  young  magistrate  gave  up  receiving 
his  friends  either  at  dinner  or  in  the  evening;  the 
house  soon  seemed  to  be  one  of  mourning.  A  house- 
hold which  has  a  devote  for  its  mistress  assumes  a 
peculiar  aspect.  The  servants  under  the  eye  of  such  a 
woman  are  chosen  from  among  those  self-called  pious 
persons  who  have  a  physiognomy  of  their  own.  Just 
as  a  jovial  youth  entering  the  gendarmerie  acquires 
the  gendarme  face,  so  domestic  servants  who  are 
trained  to  the  practice  of  devotion  contract  a  uniform 
and  peculiar  countenance,  a  habit  of  lowering  the  eyes, 
of  maintaining  an  attitude  of  compunction,  a  livery  of 
cant,  in  short,  which  humbugs  wear  marvellously  well. 

Besides  this,  devotes  form  among  themselves  a 
species  of  republic ;  they  all  know  one  another ;  their 
servants,  whom  they  recommend  within  their  own 
circle,  are  like  a  race  apart,  preserved  by  them  as 
horse-breeders  admit  to  their  stables  only  such  animals 
as  possess  a  clear  pedigree.  The  more  a  so-called 
unbeliever  examines  the  home  of  a  devote^  the  more 
he  finds  that  everything  about  it  is  stamped  with  an 
indescribable  unpleasantness.  He  finds  there  the 
symptoms  of  avarice  and  mystery  that  characterize 
the  house  of  a  usurer;  also  that  perfumed  dampness  of 
incense  which  makes  the  chilly  atmosphere  of  chapels. 
The  paltry  rigor,  the  poverty  of  ideas  which  appear 


A  Double  Life,  411 

In  all  things  can  only  be  expressed  by  the  one  word 
bigotry.  In  these  repellent,  implacable  houses  bigotry 
is  painted  on  the  walls,  the  furniture,  in  the  pictures, 
the  engravings;  the  talk  is  bigoted,  the  silence  is 
bigoted,  the  faces  are  bigoted.  The  transformation 
of  things  and  men  into  bigotry  is  an  inexplicable 
mystery;  but  the  fact  exists.  Every  one  must  have 
observed  that  bigots  do  not  walk,  or  sit  down,  or 
speak,  as  walk,  sit,  and  speak  the  rest  of  the  world: 
in  their  presence  others  are  embarrassed;  no  one 
laughs;  all  things  are  rigid,  stiff,  uniform,  from  the 
cap  of  the  mistress  of  the  house  to  her  pincushion 
with  its  even  rows  of  pins;  glances  are  not  open  or 
frank;  the  servants  seem  shadows;  the  lady  of  the 
house  sits  enthroned  on  ice. 

One  morning  poor  Granville  became  aware,  with 
pain  and  sadness,  of  the  symptoms  of  bigotry  now 
established  in  his  home.  We  find  in  the  world  certain 
social  spheres  where  the  same  effects  exist,  though 
produced  by  other  causes.  Ennui  draws  around  these 
unhappy  homes  a  circlet  of  iron  which  encloses  the 
horrors  of  the  desert  and  the  infinitude  of  the  void. 
A  household  is  then,  not  a  tomb,  but  something  worse, 
—  a  convent. 

In  the  centre  of  this  glacial  sphere  the  magistrate 
now  contemplated  his  wife  without  passion  or  illu- 
sion; he  remarked  with  keen  regret  the  narrowness  of 
her  ideas,  betrayed  externally  by  the  way  the  hair 
grew  on  the  low  forehead  which  was  hollow  beneath 
the  temples.  He  saw  in  the  perfect  regularity  of  her 
features  something,  it  is  hard  to  say  what,  of  fixed- 
ness  and  rigidity  which  made  him  almost  hate  the 


412  A  Double  Life: 

Bpecious  gentleness  by  which  he  had  been  won.  He 
felt  that  the  day  might  come  when  those  thin  lips 
would  say  to  him  in  presence  of  some  misfortune: 
"It  is  sent  for  your  good,  my  friend." 

Madame  de  Granville's  face  was  gradually  assuming 
a  wan  complexion  and  a  stern  expression  which  killed 
all  joy  in  those  who  came  in  contact  with  her.  Was 
this  change  brought  about  by  the  ascetic  habits  of  a 
piety  which  is  no  more  true  piety  than  avarice  is 
economy;  or  was  it  produced  by  the  dryness  natural 
to  a  bigoted  soul  ?  It  would  be  difficult  to  say ;  beauty 
without  passion  is  perhaps  an  imposture.  The  imper- 
turbable smile  which  this  young  woman  trained  upon 
her  face  as  she  looked  at  her  husband,  seemed  to  be 
a  sort  of  jesuitized  formula  of  happiness  by  which  she 
believed  she  satisfied  the  demands  of  marriage.  Her 
charity  wounded,  her  passionless  beauty  seemed  a 
monstrosity  to  those  who  observed  her;  the  softest  of 
her  speeches  made  them  impatient,  for  she  was  not 
obeying  a  feeling,  but  a  sense  of  duty. 

There  are  certain  defects  which,  in  a  woman,  will 
often  yield  to  lessons  of  experience  or  to  the  influ- 
ence of  a  husband,  but  nothing  can  ever  overcome  the 
tyranny  of  false  religious  ideas.  An  eternity  of  hap- 
piness to  win,  put  into  the  scales  against  earthly 
pleasure,  will  always  triumph,  and  make  all  things 
bearable.  May  not  this  be  called  deified  egotism,  the 
/  beyond  the  grave  ?  Even  the  pope  was  condemned 
before  the  judgment-seat  of  the  canon  and  the  young 
devote.  The  impossibility  of  being  wrong  is  a  feeling 
that  ends  by  superseding  all  others  in  these  despotic 
eouls. 


A  Double  Life.  413 

Thus,  for  some  time  past,  an  underground  struggle 
had  been  going  on  between  the  opposing  ideas  of  hus- 
band and  wife,  but  Granville  was  now  weary  of  a 
battle  which  he  saw  would  never  cease.  What  hus- 
band could  bear  incessantly  before  him  the  sight  of 
a  face  hypocritically  affectionate,  and  the  annoyance 
of  categorical  remonstrances  opposed  to  his  slightest 
will?  How  treat  a  woman  who  uses  your  passion  to 
protect  her  own  want  of  feeling,  who  seems  resolved 
to  remain  inexorably  gentle,  and  prepares  with  delight 
to  play  the  part  of  victim,  regarding  her  husband  as 
an  instrument  of  God,  — a  scourge,  whose  flagellations 
are  to  spare  her  those  of  purgatory  ?  But  what  descrip- 
tion can  give  an  idea  of  these  women  who  make  virtue 
odious  by  distorting  the  precepts  of  a  religion  which 
Saint  John  summed  up  in  one,  namely:  "Love  one 
another  ?  " 

Thus,  in  that  domestic  existence  which  needs  so 
much  expansion,  Granville's  life  was  now  companion- 
less.  Nothing  m  his  home  was  sympathetic  to  him. 
The  large  crucifix  placed  between  his  wife's  bed  and 
his  own  was  like  a  symbol  of  his  destiny.  Did  it  not 
represent  the  killing  of  a  divine  thing,  —  the  death  of 
a  God-man  in  all  the  beauty  of  life  and  youth?  The 
ivory  of  that  cross  was  less  cold  than  Angelique  as 
she  sacrificed  her  husband  in  the  name  of  virtue.  The 
misery  of  the  young  magistrate  became  intense;  he 
went  alone  into  the  world,  and  to  theatres;  his  wife 
saw  only  duties,  and  pleasures  to  be  shunned  in  mar- 
riage, but  what  could  he  say  ?  he  could  not  even  com- 
plain. He  possessed  a  young  and  pretty  wife,  attached 
to  her  duties,  virtuous,  —  the  model,  in  fact,  of  all  the 


414  A  Double  Life, 

virtues.  She  brought  him  a  child  every  year;  nursed 
her  children,  and  trained  them  up  to  the  highest  prin- 
ciples. Her  charitable  soul  was  thought  angelic.  The 
elderly  women  who  composed  the  society  in  which  she 
lived  (for  in  those  days  young  women  had  not  as  yet 
taken  it  into  their  heads  to  make  a  fashion  of  devo- 
tion) admired  Madame  de  Granville's  zealous  piety, 
and  regarded  her,  if  not  as  a  virgin,  at  least  as  a 
martyr. 

Insensibly,  Granville,  overwhelmed  with  toil,  de- 
prived of  pleasures,  weary  of  society  where  he  wan- 
dered alone,  fell,  by  the  time  he  was  thirty-two,  into 
a  condition  of  painful  apathy.  Life  became  odious 
to  him.  Having  too  high  a  sense  of  his  obligations 
to  allow  himself  to  fall  into  irregular  ways,  he  en- 
deavored to  stupefy  himself  by  toil,  and  began  a  great 
work  on  a  legal  subject.  But  he  did  not  long  enjoy 
that  form  of  monastic  peace  on  which  he  had  counted. 

When  the  pious  Angelique  saw  that  he  deserted 
society  and  worked  at  home  with  a  sort  of  regularity, 
she  thought  the  time  had  come  to  convert  him.  To 
feel  that  her  husband's  views  were  not  Christian  was 
a  genuine  grief  to  her ;  she  often  wept  at  the  thought 
that  if  he  died  suddenly  he  would  perish  in  his  sin, 
and  she  could  then  have  no  hope  of  saving  him  from 
the  flames  of  eternal  punishment.  Henceforth  Gran- 
ville became  a  target  for  the  petty  thrusts,  the  paltry  4, 
arguments,  the  narrow  views  by  which  his  wife,  who 
thought  she  had  won  a  first  victory  by  withdrawing 
him  from  the  world,  endeavored  to  obtain  a  second  by 
bringing  him  into  the  pale  of  the  Church.    ' 

This  was  the  last  drop  to  his  cup  of  misery.     What 


A  Double  Life.  415 

could  be  more  intolerable  than  a  dumb  struggle  in 
which  the  obstinacy  of  a  narrow  mind  endeavored  to 
subdue  the  intelligence  of  the  lawyer;  what  more  hor- 
rible to  bear  than  this  acrid  nagging  to  which  a  gen- 
erous nature  would  far  prefer  an  open  stab  ?  Granville 
deserted  his  house,  where  all  was  now  unbearable  to 
him.  His  children,  subjected  to  the  cold  despotism 
of  their  mother,  were  not  allowed  to  accompany  him 
to  the  theatre ;  he  was  literally  unable  to  give  them  a 
single  pleasure  without  drawing  down  upon  them  a 
rebuke  from  his  wife.  This  man,  naturally  loving, 
was  driven  into  a  condition  of  indifference,  of  selfish 
egotism,  which  to  him  was  worse  than  death. 

He  saved  his  sons  as  soon  as  possible  from  the  hell 
of  this  life  by  sending  them  to  school  at  an  early  age, 
and  by  maintaining  firmly  his  right  to  manage  them. 
He  did  not  interfere,  or  interfered  very  rarely,  between 
the  mother  and  her  daughters,  though  he  resolved  to 
marry  the  latter  as  soon  as  they  attained  to  a  mar- 
riageable age.  If  he  had  taken  a  more  decided  and 
violent  course  nothing  would  have  justified  it.  His 
wife,  supported  by  the  formidable  circle  of  pious 
dowagers  among  whom  she  lived,  could  have  shown 
his  injustice  to  all  the  world.  Granville  had  literally 
no  other  resource  than  a  life  of  isolation.  Crushed 
under  the  tyranny  of  these  misfortunes,  his  very  feat- 
ures, withered  and  hardened  by  grief  and  toil,  became 
displeasing  to  himself;  he  shrank  from  all  intercourse 
with  others,  especially  with  women  of  society,  from 
whom  he  despaired  of  gaining  any  comfort. 

The  didactic  history  of  this  sad  household  during 
the  fifteen  years  between   1806  and  1821  ofifera  no 


416  A  Boulle  Life. 

Bcene  that  is  worthy  of  being  related.  Madame  de 
Granville  remained  precisely  the  same  woman  after 
she  had  lost  her  husband's  heart  as  she  was  in  the 
days  when  she  called  herself  happy.  She  made  no- 
venas,  praying  God  and  the  saints  to  enlighten  her 
mind  as  to  the  faults  by  which  she  displeased  her 
husband,  and  to  show  her  the  means  of  bringing  back 
that  erring  sheep  into  the  fold.  But  the  more  fervent 
her  prayers,  the  less  her  husband  appeared  in  his 
home.  For  five  years  past  Granville,  now  attorney- 
general  under  the  Restoration,  had  taken  up  his  abode 
on  the  ground-floor  of  his  house  to  avoid  the  necessity 
of  living  with  his  wife.  Every  morning  a  scene  took 
place  which  (if  we  may  believe  the  gossip  of  society) 
occurs  in  the  bosom  of  many  a  family,  —  produced  by 
incompatibility  of  temper,  or  by  mental  and  physical 
diseases,  or  by  antagonisms  which  bring  the  results 
related  in  this  history  to  many  a  marriage.  Every 
morning  at  eight  o'clock  the  countess's  waiting- 
woman,  looking  much  like  a  nun,  rang  at  the  door  of 
the  count's  apartment.  Shown  into  the  salon  adjoin- 
ing the  magistrate's  study,  she  gave  to  the  valet,  and 
always  in  the  same  tone,  this  stereotyped  message :  — 

"Madame  begs  to  know  if  Monsieur  le  comte  has 
passed  a  good  night,  and  whether  she  shall  have  the 
pleasure  of  breakfasting  with  him." 

"Monsieur,"  the  valet  would  reply,  after  conveying 
the  message  to  his  master,  "presents  his  regards  to 
Madame  la  comtesse  and  begs  her  to  excuse  him;  an 
important  affair  obliges  him  to  go  to  the  Palais  at 
once." 

A  few  moments  later  the  maid  would  reappear  to 


A  Double  Life,  417 

ask  in  Madame* s  name  if  she  should  have  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  Monsieur  le  comte  before  he  went  out. 

"He  has  gone  already,"  the  valet  would  reply, 
though  the  count's  carriage  might  be  still  in  the  court- 
yard. 

This  ambassadorial  dialogue  was  a  daily  ceremony. 
Granville's  valet,  who,  being  a  favorite  with  his  mas- 
ter, was  the  cause  of  more  than  one  quarrel  in  the 
household  on  account  of  his  irreligion  and  moral 
laxity,  would  sometimes  take  the  message  as  a  matter 
of  form  into  the  study  when  the  count  was  not  there, 
bringing  back  the  accustomed  answer.  The  afflicted 
wife  would  often  watch  for  her  husband's  return  and 
go  down  to  the  vestibule  and  place  herself  in  his  way 
to  awaken  his  remorse.  This  petty  teasing,  charac- 
teristic of  monastic  life,  was  a  strong  feature  in  the 
nature  of  this  woman,  who,  though  she  was  only  thirty- 
five,  now  looked  to  be  over  forty. 

The  presidency  of  a  royal  court  in  the  provinces 
was  offered  to  the  Comte  de  Granville,  who  stood  well 
in  favor  with  the  King,  but  he  begged  the  ministry 
to  allow  him  to  remain  in  Paris.  This  refusal,  the 
reasons  for  which  were  known  only  to  the  Keeper  of 
the  Seals,  suggested  various  strange  conjectures  among 
the  intimates  of  the  countess,  and  more  especially  to 
her  confessor.  Granville,  the  possessor  of  a  hun- 
dred thousand  francs  a  year,  belonged  to  one  of  the 
highest  families  in  Normandy;  his  appointment  to  a 
royal  court  was  a  first  step  to  the  peerage.  Why, 
then,  such  a  lack  of  ambition?  Why  had  he  given  up 
his  great  work  on  Law?  Whence  this  unnatural  life 
which  had  made  him  for  the  last  five  years  almost  a 

27 


418  A  Double  Life. 

stranger  to  his  home,  his  duties,  and  to  all  that  ought 
to  be  dear  to  him?  The  countess's  confessor,  who 
relied  on  the  support  of  the  families  where  he  ruled  to 
advance  him  to  a  bishopric,  had  met  with  disappoint- 
ment from  Granville,  who  refused  him  his  influence; 
and  he  now  aspersed  him  with  suppositions. 

"If  Monsieur  le  comte,"  he  said,  "was  reluctant 
to  live  in  the  provinces,  it  was  probably  because  he 
feared  the  necessity  of  having  to  lead  a  moral  life. 
The  position  of  a  chief -justice  would  force  him  to  live 
with  his  wife  and  abandon  all  illicit  connections.  A 
woman  as  pure  as  the  Comtesse  de  Granville  could 
never  overlook  the  fact,  if  it  came  to  her  knowledge, 
of  her  husband's  irregularities. 

Angelique's  dowager  friends  did  not  leave  her  in 
ignorance  of  these  remarks,  which,  alas!  were  not 
groundless ;  the  effect  upon  her  was  that  of  a  thunder- 
bolt. 

"Without  any  just  ideas  of  life  or  of  society,  igno- 
rant of  love  and  its  madness,  Madame  de  Granville 
was  so  far  from  supposing  that  marriage  could  bring 
other  troubles  than  those  which  alienated  her  from  her 
husband,  that  she  thought  him  incapable  of  the  faults 
which  are  the  crimes  of  married  life.  When  the  count 
no  longer  sought  her  society  and  lived  apart,  she 
imagined  that  the  calmness  of  such  a  life  was  that  of 
nature.  She  had  given  him  all  the  affection  her  heart 
was  capable  of  giving  to  a  man,  and  these  conjectures 
of  her  confessor  completely  destroyed  all  the  illusions 
in  which  she  had  livfed  up  to  that  moment.  At  first, 
therefore,  she  disf ended  her  husband ;  although,  at  the 
same  time,  she  Wars  unable  to  put  ^way  the  suepiei^Dns 


'^ 


ate  of  very  evident  itgitation.  " 


r,#; 


3fei^ 


Coiiyri^lu  1896  by  Roberts  Bros 


edSGoupil 


A  Double  Life.  421 

wlio  were  frightened  by  an  activity  which  seemed 
almost  insane.  She  ordered  her  carriage,  then  she 
countermanded  it,  ordered  it  again,  and  changed  her 
mind  a  score  of  times  within  an  hour.  Finally,  how- 
ever, she  appeared  to  come  to  a  decisive  resolution, 
and  started  from  home  at  three  o'clock,  leaving  her 
household  amazed  at  her  sudden  action. 

"Will  your  master  be  home  to  dinner?  "  she  asked 
the  valet  (to  whom  she  usually  never  spoke)  as  she 
left  the  house. 

"No,  madame." 

"Did  he  go  to  the  Palais  this  morning?  " 

"Yes,  madame." 

"To-day  is  Monday?" 

"Yes,  madame." 

"Is  the  Palais  open  on  Mondays  now?  " 

"The  devil  take  her!"  thought  the  valet  as  the 
countess  got  into  her  carriage  and  gave  the  order: 
"Rue  Taitbout." 

Caroline  de  Belief euille  was  weeping;  beside  her 
was  Roger,  holding  one  of  her  hands  in  both  of  his. 
He  was  silent,  looking  alternately  at  little  Charles, 
who  could  not  understand  his  mother's  grief,  at  the 
cradle  where  the  baby  Eugenie  was  sleeping,  and  then 
at  the  face  of  his  friend,  where  the  tears  were  falling 
like  rain  on  a  sunshiny  day. 

**Yes,  my  angel,"  said  Roger,  after  a  long  silence, 
"that  is  the  truth;  I  am  married.  But  some  day,  I 
hope,  I  may  have  but  one  life,  one  home.  My  wife 
is  in  wretched  health ;  I  do  not  wish  her  death ;  but  if 
it  pleases  God  to  take  her,  I  think  she  will  be  happier 


422  A  Double  Life. 

in  paradise  than  she  has  been  in  a  world  the  pains  and 
pleasures  of  which  have  never  touched  her." 

''I  hate  that  woman!  How  could  she  make  you  so 
unhappy?  And  yet  it  is  to  that  misfortune  that  I  owe 
my  happiness." 

Her  tears  ceased  suddenly. 

"Caroline,  let  us  hope  on,"  cried  Roger,  with  a  kiss. 
"Never  mind  what  the  abbe  said  to  you.  Though  that 
confessor  is  a  dangerous  man  on  account  of  his  influ- 
ence in  the  Church,  if  he  attempts  to  disturb  our 
relation  I  shall  —  " 

"What?" 

"Take  you  to  Italy;  I  will  flee  —  " 

A  cry  coming  from  the  next  room  made  them  start ; 
they  both  rushed  there,  and  found  Madame  de  Gran- 
ville fainting  on  the  floor.  When  she  recovered  her 
senses  she  gave  a  deep  sigh  on  seeing  herself  between 
her  husband  and  her  rival,  whom  she  pushed  aside 
with  an  involuntary  gesture  of  contempt. 

Caroline  rose  to  go. 

"Stay  where  you  are,"  said  the  count.  "This  is 
your  house." 

Then  he  took  his  fainting  wife  in  his  arms  and  car- 
ried her  to  her  carriage,  into  which  he  followed  her. 

"What  has  made  you  desire  my  death?  Why  should 
you  wish  to  flee  me  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  weak  voice, 
looking  at  her  husband  with  as  much  indignation  as 
grief.  "Was  I  not  young?  Did  you  not  think  me 
beautiful?  What  blame  can  you  lay  at  my  door? 
Did  I  ever  deceive  you  ?  Have  I  not  been  a  good  and 
virtuous  wife  to  you  ?  My  heart  has  held  no  image 
but  yours;  my  ears  have  listened  to  no  voice  but 


A  Double  Life.  423 

yours.     What  duty  did  I  fail  to  perform?    Have  I 
ever  refused  you  anything  ?  " 

"Yes;  happiness,"  replied  the  count,  in  a  firm  voice. 
**  There  are  two  ways  of  serving  God.  Some  Chris- 
tians imagine  that  by  entering  a  church  and  saying  a 
Pater  Noster,  by  hearing  mass  at  stated  times  and 
abstaining  from  sinful  acts  they  must  win  heaven; 
such  persons  go  to  hell;  they  have  never  loved  God 
for  God's  sake;  they  do  not  worship  him  as  he  seeks 
to  be  worshipped;  they  have  made  him  no  sacrifice. 
Though  gentle  apparently,  they  are  harsh  to  their 
neighbor;  they  see  the  law,  the  letter,  but  not  the 
spirit.  That  is  how  you  have  acted  with  your  earthly 
husband.  You  have  sacrificed  my  happiness  to  your 
salvation.  You  were  absorbed  in  the  contemplation 
of  that  when  I  came  to  you  with  eager  heart;  you  wept 
and  fasted  when  you  might  have  eased  and  brightened 
my  toil ;  you  have  never  satisfied  one  pleasurable  desire 
of  my  life." 

"But  if  those  desires  were  criminal,"  cried  the 
countess,  hotly,  "was  I  to  lose  my  soul  to  please  you?  " 

"That  sacrifice  a  more  loving  woman  has  had  the 
coui-age  to  make,"  replied  the  count,  coldly. 

"  Oh,  God !  "  she  said,  weeping.  "  Thou  hearest 
him!  Was  he  worthy  of  the  prayers  and  penances  in 
which  I  have  spent  my  life  to  redeem  his  sins  and  my 
own  ?    Of  what  good  is  virtue  ?  " 

"To  win  heaven,  my  dear;  you  could  not  be  the 
bride  of  heaven  and  of  man  both;  it  was  bigamy. 
You  should  have  chosen  between  a  husband  and  a  con- 
vent. Instead  of  that,  for  the  sake  of  your  future 
salvation,  you  have  robbed  your  soul  and  mine  of 


424  A  Double  Life 

love,  of  all  the  devotion  God  bestows  upon  a  woman ; 
of  the  earthly  emotions  you  have  kept  but  one  —  and 
that  is  hatred." 
>  "Have  I  not  loved  you?  " 

"No." 

"What,  then,  is  love?"  she  said,  involuntarily. 

^^Love,  my  dear?"  said  Granville,  with  a  sort  of 
ironical  surprise.  "You  are  not  in  a  condition  to 
understand  it.  The  sky  of  Normandy  is  never  that 
of  Spain.  Perhaps  the  question  of  climate  is  really 
one  of  the  secrets  of  unhappiness.  Love  is  a  mutual 
yielding  to  each  other's  likes  and  dislikes  and 
dividing  them.  Love  finds  pleasure  in  pain,  in  sacri- 
ficing to  another  the  opinion  of  the  world,  self-love, 
self-interest,  religion  even,  —  regarding  all  such  offer- 
ings as  grains  of  incense  burned  on  the  altar  of  an 
idol;  that  is  love." 

"The  love  of  a  ballet-girl,"  said  the  countess,  hor- 
rified; "such  passions  cannot  last;  they  leave  noth- 
ing behind  them  but  cinders  and  ashes,  remorse  and 
despair.  A  wife  should  give  her  husband,  as  I  think, 
true  friendship,  an  equable  warmth,  an  —  " 

"You  talk  of  warmth  as  negroes  talk  of  ice,"  inter- 
rupted the  count,  with  a  sardonic  smile.  "Remember 
that  the  humblest  wild-flower  is  more  to  us  than  a  rose 
with  thorns.  But,"  he  added,  "I  will  do  you  justice. 
You  have  so  firmly  maintained  the  line  of  conduct  pre- 
scribed by  law  that,  in  order  to  show  you  where  you 
have  failed  toward  me,  I  should  have  to  enter  upon 
certain  details  which  your  dignity  would  not  permit, 
and  say  certain  things  which  would  seem  to  you  the 
reverse  of  moral." 


A  Double  Life.  425 

"Do  you  dare  to  speak  of  morality,  —  you  who  are 
leaving  the  house  of  a  mistress  where  you  have  squan- 
dered the  property  of  your  children  in  debauchery  ?  '* 
cried  the  countess. 

"Madame,  I  stop  you  there,"  said  the  count,  coolly, 
interrupting  his  wife.  "If  Mademoiselle  de  Belle- 
feuille  is  rich  it  is  not  at  my  expense.  My  uncle  was 
master  of  his  fortune;  he  had  many  heirs.  During 
his  lifetime,  and  solely  out  of  regard  for  a  young 
woman  whom  he  considered  in  the  light  of  a  niece, 
he  gave  her  the  estate  of  Belief euille." 

"  Such  conduct  is  worthy  of  a  Jacobin  I  "  cried  the 
pious  Angelique. 

"You  forget  that  your  father  was  one  of  those  Jaco- 
bins whom  you,  a  woman,  condemn  with  so  little 
charity,"  said  the  count,  sternly.  "The  citizen  Bon- 
tems  was  signing  death-warrants  at  the  time  when  my 
uncle  was  rendering  great  services  to  France." 

Madame  de  Granville  made  no  reply.  But,  after  a 
moment's  silence,  the  recollection  of  what  she  had  just 
seen  awoke  the  jealousy  which  nothing  can  quench  in 
a  woman's  soul,  and  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  as  if 
speaking  to  herself :  — 

"  How  can  a  man  lose  his  soul  and  that  of  others  in 
this  way  ?  " 

"Ah!  madame,"  said  the  count,  weary  of  the  fruit- 
less conversation,  "perhaps  it  is  you  who  will  have  to 
answer  for  all  this." 

These  words  made  the  countess  tremble. 

"  But  you  will  no  doubt  be  excused  in  the  eyes  of 
that  indulgent  Judge  who  understands  our  faults,"  he 
added,  "  in  virtue  of  the  sincerity  with  which  you  havo 


426  A  Double  Life. 

wrought  the  ruin  of  my  life.  I  do  not  hate  you;  I 
hate  those  who  have  distorted  your  heart  and  mind. 
You  have  prayed  for  me  doubtless  as  sincerely  as 
Mademoiselle  de  Bellefeuille  has  given  me  her  heart 
and  crowned  me  with .  love.  You  should  have  been 
both  mistress  and  saint.  Do  me  the  justice  to 
acknowledge  that  I  have  not  been  either  wicked  or 
debauched.  My  morals  are  pure.  But  alas!  at  the 
end  of  seven  years'  wretchedness,  the  need  of  being 
happy  led  me,  almost  insensibly,  to  love  another 
woman,  and  to  create  for  myself  another  home  than 
mine.  Do  not  think  I  am  the  only  man  in  Paris  who 
has  done  this.  Thousands  of  other  husbands  are 
driven,  by  one  cause  or  another,  to  lead  this  double 
life." 

"O  God!  "  cried  the  countess,  "how  heavy  is  the 
cross  I  have  to  bear!  If  the  husband  whom  thou 
gavest  me  in  thy  wrath  can  be  happy  only  through  my 
death,  recall  me  to  thy  bosom !  " 

"Had  you  shown  those  admirable  feelings  of  self- 
eacriSce  earlier,"  said  the  count,  coldly,  "we  should 
still  be  happy." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Angelique,  bursting  into  tears, 
"forgive  me  if  I  have  really  done  wrong.  Yes,  I  am 
ready  to  obey  you  in  all  things,  certain  that  you  will 
only  ask  that  which  is  natural  and  right.  Henceforth 
I  will  be  to  you  whatever  you  desire." 

"If  it  is  your  intention  to  force  me  to  say  that  I  no 
longer  love  you,  I  must  have  the  dreadful  courage  to 
say  it.  Can  I  control  my  heart?  Can  I  efface  in  one 
moment  the  memories  of  fifteen  years  of  misery?  I 
love  no  more.     Those  words  enfold  a  mystery  as  deep 


A  Double  Life.  427 

as  that  contained  in  those  other  words,  *  I  love.  * 
Esteem,  respect,  regard  may  be  obtained,  and  lost,  and 
won  again,  but  love,  ah,  never!  I  might  goad  myself 
a  thousand  years  and  it  could  not  live  again,  especially 
for  one  who  has  wilfully  destroyed  her  charm." 

**Ah!  Monsieur  le  comte,  I  sincerely  hope  the  day 
may  never  come  when  those  words  shall  be  said  to 
you  by  her  you  love,  in  the  tone  and  manner  with 
which  you  say  them  now." 

"Will  you  come  with  me  to-night  to  the  Opera  and 
wear  a  ball  dress?  " 

The  shudder  of  repugnance  which  that  sudden 
demand  produced  was  her  answer  to  the  question. 


428  A  Double  Life. 


ITL 


RESULT. 


On  one  of  the  first  days  of  December,  1833,  a  man 
whose  snow-white  hair  and  countenance  appeared  to 
show  that  grief  had  aged  him  more  than  years  (for 
he  seemed  about  sixty)  was  passing  through  the  rue 
Gaillon  after  midnight.  He  paused  before  a  poor- 
looking  house  of  three  stories  to  examine  one  of  the 
windows  which  were  placed  at  equal  distances  in  the 
mansarde  roof.  A  faint  gleam  came  from  its  humble 
sash,  in  which  some  panes  were  replaced  by  paper. 
The  passer  was  looking  at  that  flickering  light  with 
the  idle  curiosity  of  a  Parisian  lounger,  when  a  young 
man  came  suddenly  and  rapidly  from  the  house.  As 
the  pale  rays  of  the  street  lamp  fell  upon  the  face  of 
the  older  man,  he  seemed  not  wholly  surprised  when, 
in  spite  of  the  darkness,  the  young  man  came  to  him, 
with  the  precautions  used  in  Paris  when  one  fears  to 
be  mistaken  in  a  recognition. 

*'What!"  exclaimed  the  latter,  "is  it  really  you. 
Monsieur  le  comte,  alone,  on  foot,  at  this  hour,  and 
so  far  from  the  rue  Saint-Lazare?  Allow  me  the 
honor  of  offering  you  my  arm.  The  pavement  to- 
night is  so  slippery  that  unless  we  support  each 
other,"  he  added,  to  spare  the  pride  of  the  old  man, 
"we  shall  find  it  difficult  to  escape  a  fall." 


A  Double  Life,  429 

"But,  my  dear  friend,  I  am  only  fifty-nine  years  of 
age  —  unhappily  for  me,"  said  the  Comte  de  Granville. 
"So  celebrated  a  physician  as  yourself  ought  to  know 
that  a  man  is  in  his  full  vigor  at  that  time  of  life." 

"Then  you  must  be  engaged  in  some  love  affair," 
replied  Horace  Bianchon,  laughing.  "You  are  not,  I 
am  sure,  accustomed  to  go  on  foot.  When  a  man  has 
such  horses  as  yours  —  " 

"But  the  greater  part  of  the  time,"  said  the  Comte 
de  Granville,  "I  do  return  from  the  Palais,  or  the 
Cercle  des  !^trangers,  on  foot  " 

"And  carrying,  no  doubt,  on  your  person  large  sums 
of  money.  Isn't  that  inviting  a  dagger.  Monsieur  le 
comte?" 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  such  daggers,"  replied  the  count 
with  a  careless  though  melancholy  air. 

"But  at  any  rate  you  ought  not  to  stand  still,"  said 
the  physician,  drawing  the  magistrate  on  toward  the 
boulevard.  "A  little  more,  and  I  shall  think  you 
want  to  rob  me  of  your  last  illness,  and  to  die  by 
another  hand  than  mine." 

"Well,  you  surprised  me  engaged  in  a  bit  of  spy- 
ing," said  the  count,  smiling.  "Whether  I  pass 
through  this  street  on  foot  or  in  a  carriage,  at  any 
hour  of  the  night  I  am  certain  to  see  at  a  third  story 
window  of  the  house  you  have  just  left  the  shadow  of  a 
person  who  appears  to  be  working  with  heroic  courage." 

So  saying,  the  count  stopped  short,  as  if  some  sud- 
den pang  had  seized  him. 

"I  take  as  much  interest  in  that  attic,"  he  con- 
tinued, "as  a  Parisian  bourgeois  feels  in  the  comple- 
tion of  the  Palais-Royal  —  " 


430  A  Double  Life, 


li^ 


'Well,"  cried  Horace,  eagerly,  interrupting  the 
count,  '*I  can  tell  you  —  " 

"Tell  me  nothing,"  said  Granville,  cutting  short  the 
doctor's  words.  "I  wouldn't  give  a  penny  to  know 
if  the  shadow  that  flickers  on  that  ragged  curtain  is 
that  of  a  man  or  woman,  or  if  the  occupant  of  that 
garret  is  happy  or  unhappy.  If  I  was  surprised  to- 
night not  to  see  that  person  working,  and  if  I  stopped 
for  a  moment  to  gaze  at  the  window,  it  was  solely  for 
the  amusement  of  making  conjectures  as  numerous  and 
as  silly  as  those  the  street  idlers  make  about  buildings 
in  course  of  erection.  For  the  last  nine  years,  my 
young  —  " 

He  stopped,  seemed  to  hesitate  to  use  some  expres- 
sion, and  then,  with  a  hasty  gesture,  added :  — 

"No,  I  will  not  call  you  friend;  I  detest  every  sem- 
blance of  sentiment.  For  the  last  nine  years,  as  I 
was  saying,  I  am  no  longer  surprised  that  old  people 
take  pleasure  in  cultivating  flowers  and  planting  trees. 
The  events  of  life  have  taught  them  not  to  trust  in 
human  affections.  I  grew  an  old  man  suddenly;  I 
attach  myself  now  to  none  but  animals ;  I  will  call  no 
man  friend.  I  abhor  the  life  of  the  world,  in  which  I 
am  alone.  Nothing,  nothing,"  added  the  count,  with  an 
expression  which  made  the  young  man  shudder, — "noth- 
ing can  move  me  now,  and  nothing  can  interest  me.'* 

"But  you  have  children?  " 

"My  children!"  he  replied,  in  a  tone  of  strange 
bitterness.  "Yes,  my  eldest  daughter  is  the  Comtesse 
de  Vandenesse.  As  for  the  other,  her  sister's  mar- 
riage has  opened  the  way  to  hers.  My  two  sons  have 
met  with  great  success ;  the  vicomte  is  attorney-gen- 


A  Double  Life,  431 

eral  at  Limoges,  and  the  younger  is  king's  attorney. 
My  children  have  their  own  interests,  cares,  and 
solicitudes.  If  a  single  one  among  them  had  tried  to 
fill  the  void  that  is  here"  he  said,  striking  his  breast, 
"well,  that  one  would  have  ruined  his  or  her  life  by 
sacrificing  it  to  me!  And  why  have  done  so,  after 
all,  merely  to  brighten  my  few  remaining  years? 
Besides,  could  it  have  been  done  ?  Should  I  not  have 
looked  upon  such  generous  care  as  the  payment  of  a 
debt?    But  —  " 

Here  the  old  man  smiled  with  deepest  irony. 

"But,  doctor,  the  lessons  we  teach  our  children  in 
arithmetic  are  never  lost;  they  learn  how  to  calcu- 
late—  their  inheritance.  At  this  moment  mine  are 
reckoning  on  that." 

"Oh!  Monsieur  le  comte,  how  can  such  thoughts 
have  come  into  your  mind  ? —  you,  so  kind,  so  obliging, 
so  humane?  Am  I  not  myself  a  living  proof  of  the 
beneficence  of  which  you  take  so  broad  and  grand  a 
view?  " 

"For  my  own  pleasure,"  said  the  count,  hastily. 
"I  pay  for  a  sensation  as  I  shall  pay  to-morrow  in 
piles  of  gold  for  the  paltry  excitement  of  play,  which 
stirs  my  heart  for  an  instant.  I  help  my  fellow-mor- 
tals for  the  same  reason  that  I  play  at  cards.  There- 
fore I  look  for  no  gratitude  from  any  one.  Ah!  young 
man,  the  events  of  life  have  flowed  across  my  soul  like 
the  lava  of  Vesuvius  through  Herculaneum;  the  city 
exists,  dead." 

"Those  who  have  brought  a  soul  so  warm  and  living 
as  yours  to  such  a  point  of  insensibility  are  guilty  of 
an  awful  wrong." 


432  A  Double  Life. 

"Not  another  word! "  cried  the  count,  with  a  look 
of  horror. 

"You  have  a  malady  upon  you  which  you  ought  to 
let  me  cure,"  said  Bianchon,  in  a  voice  of  emotion. 

"Do  you  know  a  cure  for  death?"  exclaimed  the 
count,  impatiently. 

"Yes,  Monsieur  le  comte,  I  will  engage  to  stir  that 
heart  you  call  so  dead." 

"Are  you  another  Talma?  " 

"No;  but  Nature  is  as  far  superior  to  Talma  as 
Talma  may  be  to  me.  Hear  me:  that  garret  at  which 
you  gazed  with  interest  is  inhabited  by  a  woman, 
some  thirty  years  of  age,  in  whom  love  has  become 
fanaticism.  The  object  of  her  worship  is  a  young 
man  of  fine  appearance,  to  whom  some  evil  genius 
gave  at  birth  all  the  vices  of  humanity.  He  is  a 
gambler;  whether  he  loves  women  or  wine  best  no  one 
could  decide;  he  has  committed,  to  my  knowledge, 
crimes  that  should  have  brought  him  to  the  correc- 
tional police.  Well,  that  unhappy  woman  sacrificed 
for  him  a  happy  life,  a  man  v/ho  adored  her,  by 
whom  she  had  two  children  —  What  is  it,  Monsieur 
le  comte?  are  you  ill?" 

"No,  nothing;  goon!" 

"She  has  let  him  squander  her  whole  property;  she 
would  give  him,  I  think,  the  world  if  she  had  it; 
night  and  day  she  works;  often,  without  a  murmur, 
she  has  seen  that  monster  take  the  money  she  had 
earned  to  clothe  her  children  —  nay,  their  very  food 
for  the  morrow!  Three  days  ago  she  sold  her  hair, 
the  finest  I  ever  saw;  that  man  came  in  before  she 
hid  the  bit  of  gold;  he  claimed  it;  for  a  smile,  a  kiss. 


A  Bouhle  Life.  433 

she  gave  him  the  value  of  days  of  life  and  comfort! 
Is  not  such  love  both  shocking  and  sublime?  But  toil 
and  hunger  have  begun  to  waste  her  strength;  the 
cries  of  her  children  torture  her;  she  has  fallen  ill; 
to-night  she  is  moaning  on  her  pallet,  unable,  as  you 
saw,  to  work.  The  children  have  had  no  food  all  day ; 
they  have  ceased  to  cry,  being  too  weak;  they  were 
silent  when  I  got  there." 

Bianchon  stopped.  The  Comte  de  Granville,  as  if 
in  spite  of  himself,  had  plunged  his  hand  into  his 
pocket. 

"I  foresee,  my  young  friend,  that  she  will  live," 
said  the  old  man,  "if  you  take  care  of  her." 

"Ah!  poor  creature,"  cried  the  doctor,  "who  would 
not  take  care  of  one  so  wretched  ?  But  I  hope  to  do 
more;  I  hope  to  cure  her  of  her  love." 

"But,"  said  the  count,  withdrawing  his  hand  full  of 
bank-notes  from  his  pocket,  "why  should  I  pity  a 
wretchedness  whose  joys  would  seem  to  me  worth 
more  than  all  my  fortune?  She  feels,  she  lives,  that 
woman !  Louis  XV.  would  have  given  his  whole  king- 
dom to  rise  from  his  coffin  and  have  three  days  of 
youth  and  life.  Is  not  that  the  history  of  millions 
of  dead  men,  millions  of  sick  men,  millions  of  old 
men?" 

"Poor  Caroline!  "  exclaimed  the  physician. 

Hearing  that  name  the  Comte  de  Granville  quivered ; 
he  seized  the  arm  of  his  companion,  who  fancied  him- 
self gripped  by  iron  pincers. 

"Is  she  Caroline  Crochard?  "  asked  the  old  man,  in 
a  faltering  voice. 

"Then  you  know  her? "  replied  the  doctor. 


434  A  Double  Life. 

"And  that  wretch  is  named  Sol  vet —  Ah!  you 
have  kept  your  word;  you  have  stirred  my  heart  by 
the  most  terrible  sensation  I  shall  know  till  I  am 
dust,"  said  the  count.  "Another  of  hell's  gifts!"  he 
cried;  "but  I  know  how  to  pay  them  back." 

At  that  moment  the  count  and  Bianchon  had  reached 
the  corner  of  the  rue  de  la  Chaussee-d'Antin.  One  of 
those  night-birds,  a  scavenger,  with  his  basket  on  his 
back  and  a  hook  in  his  hand,  was  close  beside  the 
post  where  the  count  had  now  stopped  short.  The 
face  of  the  old  rag-picker  was  worthy  of  those  which 
Charlet  has  immortalized  in  his  sketches  of  the  school 
of  sweepers. 

"  Do  you  often  pick  up  thousand-franc  notes  ?  "  the 
count  said  to  him. 

"Sometimes,  my  master." 

"Do  you  return  them?  " 

"That 's  according  to  the  reward  offered." 

"Here,  my  man,"  cried  the  count,  giving  him  a  note 
for  a  thousand  francs.  "Take  that;  but  remember 
that  I  give  it  to  you  on  condition  that  you  spend  it  at 
a  tavern,  get  drunk  upon  it,  quarrel,  beat  your  wife, 
stab  your  friends.  That  will  set  the  watch,  and  sur- 
geons and  doctors,  perhaps  the  gendarmes,  the  attor- 
neys, the  judges  and  the  jailers  all  to  work.  Don't 
change  that  programme,  or  the  devil  will  revenge  it  on 

you." 

It  needs  an  artist  with  the  pencil  of  Charlet  and 
Callot  and  the  brushes  of  Teniers  and  Rembrandt  to 
give  a  true  idea  of  this  nocturnal  scene. 

"There  *s  my  account  settled,  for  the  present,  with 
hell,  and  I  have  had  some  pleasure  out  of  my  money," 


A  Double  Life.  435 

said  the  count  in  a  deep  voice,  pointing  out  to  the 
stupefied  physician  the  indescribable  face  of  the  gap- 
ing  rag-picker.  '*As  for  Caroline  Crochard,"  he  con- 
tinued, "she  may  die  in  the  tortures  of  hunger  and 
thirst,  listening  to  the  cries  of  her  starving  children, 
recognizing  the  vileness  of  that  man  she  loves.  I  will 
not  give  one  penny  to  keep  her  from  suffering;  and  I 
will  never  speak  to  you  again,  for  the  sole  reason  that 
you  have  succored  her." 

The  count  left  Bianchon  standing  motionless  as  a 
statue,  and  disappeared,  moving  with  the  rapidity  of 
a  young  man  in  the  direction  of  the  rue  Saint- Lazare. 
When  he  reached  the  little  house  which  he  occupied 
in  that  street,  he  saw,  with  some  surprise,  a  carriage 
before  the  door. 

"Monsieur  le  procureur  du  roi,"  said  his  valet  when 
he  entered,  "has  been  here  an  hour,  waiting  to  speak 
with  monsieur.     He  is  in  monsieur's  bedroom." 

Granville  made  a  sign  to  the  man,  who  retired. 

"What  motive  could  be  strong  enough  to  make  you 
break  my  express  orders  that  none  of  my  children 
should  come  to  this  house  without  being  sent  for  ?  ** 
he  said  to  his  son  as  he  entered  the  room. 

"Father,"  said  the  son,  respectfully,  in  a  voice  that 
trembled,  "I  feel  sure  you  will  pardon  me  when  you 
have  heard  my  reason." 

"Your  answer  is  a  proper  one,"  said  his  father, 
pointing  to  a  chair.  "Sit  down;  but  whether  I  sit  or 
walk  about,  pay  no  attention  to  my  movements." 

"Father,"  said  the  procureur  du  roi,  "a  young  lad 
has  been  arrested  this  evening  at  the  house  of  a  friend 


436  A  Double  Life, 

of  mine,  where  he  committed  a  theft;  the  lad  appeals 
to  you  and  says  he  is  your  son." 

"  His  name  ?  "  asked  the  count,  trembling. 

"  Charles  Crochard. " 

*' Enough,"  said  the  father,  with  an  imperative 
gesture. 

Granville  walked  up  and  down  the  room  in  a  deep 
silence  which  his  son  was  careful  not  to  break. 

"My  son,"  he  said  at  last,  in  a  tone  so  gentle, 
so  paternal  that  the  young  man  quivered,  "Charles 
Crochard  has  told  the  truth.  I  am  glad  that  you  have 
come  to  me,  my  good  Eugene.  Here  is  a  sum  of 
money,"  he  added,  taking  up  a  mass  of  bank-bills, 
"which  you  must  use  as  you  see  fit  in  this  affair.  I 
trust  in  you,  and  I  approve,  in  advance,  all  that  you 
may  do,  whether  at  the  present  time,  or  in  the  future. 
Eugene,  my  dear  son,  kiss  me;  perhaps  we  now  see 
each  other  for  the  last  time.  To-morrow  I  shall  ask 
leave  of  absence  of  the  king  and  start  for  Italy. 
Though  a  father  is  not  bound  to  account  to  his  chil- 
dren for  his  conduct,  he  ought  to  leave  them  as  a 
legacy  the  experience  which  fate  has  allotted  to  him, 
— it  is  apart  of  their  inheritance.  When  you  marry," 
continued  the  count,  with  an  involuntary  shudder,  "  do 
not  commit  that  act,  the  most  important  of  all  those 
Imposed  upon  us  by  society,  thoughtlessly.  Study 
long  the  character  of  the  woman  with  whom  you  asso- 
ciate yourself  for  life ;  also  consult  me ;  I  should  wish 
to  judge  her  for  myself.  A  want  of  union  between 
husband  and  wife,  however  it  may  be  caused,  leads  to 
frightful  evils.     We  are,  sooner  or  later,  punished  for 


A  Double  Life,  437 

not  obeying  social  laws —  But  as  to  that,  I  will 
write  to  you  from  Florence;  a  father,  especially  if 
he  has  the  honor  to  be  a  judge  in  the  highest  courts 
of  law,  ought  not  to  blush  in  presence  of  his  son. 
Farewell." 


THE   RURAL   BALL, 


THE    EUEAL    BALL. 


To  Henri  de  Balzac, 

His  Bbothes, 

Honob:^ 
I. 

A  REBELLIOUS  YOUNG  GIRL. 

The  Comte  de  Fontaine,  head  of  one  of  the  most 
ancient  families  in  Poitou,  had  served  the  cause  of 
the  Bourbons  with  courage  and  intelligence  during  the 
war  which  the  Vendeans  made  against  the  Republic. 
After  escaping  the  dangers  that  threatened  the  royalist 
leaders  during  that  stormy  period  of  contemporaneous 
history,  he  said,  gayly:  "I  am  one  of  those  who  are 
fated  to  be  killed  on  the  steps  of  the  throne."  This 
little  jest  was  not  without  truth,  as  to  a  man  left  for 
dead  on  the  bloody  day  of  the  Quatre-Chemins. 

Though  ruined  by  confiscations,  the  faithful  Vendean 
refused  the  lucrative  places  which  were  offered  to 
him  by  the  Emperor  Napoleon.  Uncompromising  in 
his  religion  of  aristocracy  he  had  blindly  followed  its 
axioms  when  he  thought  proper  to  take  a  wife.  In 
spite  of  the  offers  of  a  rich  revolutionary  parvenu, 
who  was  willing  to  pay  a  high  price  for  such  au  alii- 


442  The  Rural  Ball. 

ance,  he  married  a  Demoiselle  de  Kergarouet,  a  girl 
without  fortune,  but  whose  family  is  one  of  the  oldest 
in  Brittany.  At  the  time  of  the  Restoration,  Monsieur 
de  Fontaine  was  burdened  with  a  numerous  family. 
Though  he  did  not  share  the  ideas  of  the  greedy  nobles 
who  begged  for  favors,  he  yielded  to  his  wife's  request, 
left  his  country  domain,  the  modest  revenues  of  which 
barely  sufficed  for  the  needs  of  his  children,  and  came 
to  Paris.  Shocked  by  the  avidity  shown  by  many  of 
his  old  comrades  for  the  places  and  dignities  of  the 
new  regime,  he  was  about  to  return  to  Poitou,  when 
he  received  an  official  letter  in  which  a  well-known 
minister  informed  him  of  his  appointment  to  the  rank 
of  brigadier-general,  in  virtue  of  the  ordinance  which 
allowed  the  officers  of  the  Catholic  armies  to  count  the 
twenty  years  of  Louis  XVIII. 's  exiled  reign  as  years 
of  service.  Some  days  later  the  count  received,  with- 
out solicitation,  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of  honor  and 
that  of  the  order  of  Saint-Louis. 

Shaken  in  his  resolution  by  these  successive  favors, 
which  he  thought  he  owed  to  the  monarch's  memory, 
he  no  longer  contented  himself  with  taking  his  family, 
as  he  had  done  religiously  every  Sunday  morning,  to 
the  Salle  des  Marechaux  to  shout  "Vive  le  roi! "  when 
the  princes  passed  on  their  way  to  Mass;  he  asked 
the  favor  of  a  private  audience.  This  audience,  in- 
stantly granted,  had,  however,  nothing  private  about 
it.  The  royal  salon  was  full  of  old  royalists,  whose 
powdered  heads  seen  at  a  certain  level  looked  like  a 
carpet  of  snow.  There,  the  count  met  with  a  number 
of  his  old  companions  in  arms,  who  received  him 
rather  stiffly ;  but  the  princes  were  adorable^  a  term  of 


The  Rural  Ball.  443 

enthusiasm  which  escaped  him  when  the  most  gracious 
of  his  masters,  whom  the  count  supposed  to  know 
barely  his  name,  came  up  and  pressed  his  hand,  and 
called  him  the  purest  and  most  disinterested  of  the 
Vendeans. 

But  in  spite  of  this  ovation,  none  of  these  august 
personages  thought  of  asking  him  the  amount  of  his 
losses  in  their  cause,  nor  that  of  the  money  he  had 
generously  poured  out  for  the  maintenance  of  the 
Catholic  army.  He  found,  too  late,  that  he  had  made 
war  at  his  own  expense.  Toward  the  end  of  the  even* 
ing  he  thought  he  might  risk  a  witty  allusion  to  the 
state  of  his  affairs.  His  Majesty  laughed  heartily; 
any  speech  that  bore  the  stamp  of  wit  was  sure  of 
pleasing  him ;  but  for  all  that,  he  replied  with  one  of 
those  royal  jests  whose  soft  speciousness  is  more  to 
be  feared  than  a  reprimand.  One  of  the  king's  confi- 
dential intimates  soon  after  approached  the  Vend^an 
and  let  him  know,  in  a  guarded  and  civil  manner,  that 
the  time  had  not  yet  come  to  make  claims  upon 
the  masters,  for  there  were  others  on  the  tapis  whose 
services  were  of  longer  date  than  his.  The  count  on 
this  retired  from  the  group  which  formed  a  semi-circle 
in  front  of  the  august  royal  family.  Then,  after  dis- 
engaging his  sword,  not  without  difficulty,  from  the 
midst  of  the  weak  old  legs  which  surrounded  him, 
he  made  his  way  on  foot  across  the  court-yard  of  the 
Tuileries,  to  a  hackney-coach  which  he  had  left  upon 
the  quay.  With  that  restive  spirit  which  characterizes 
the  nobility  of  the  vieille  roche,  in  whom  the  memory 
of  the  League  and  the  Barricades  is  not  yet  extinct, 
he  grumbled  aloud,  as  he  drove  along,  on  the  change 
that  was  visible  at  court. 


444  The  Rural  Ball 

"Formerly,"  he  said,  "every  man  could  speak  freely 
to  the  king  of  his  affairs ;  the  seigneurs  could  ask  at  ^ 
their  ease  for  money  and  offices ;  but  now  it  appears 
we  cannot  even  ask  without  scandal  for  the  sums  we 
have  advanced  in  his  service.  Morhleu!  the  cross  of 
Saint-Louis  and  the  rank  of  general  are  no  equivalent 
for  the  three  hundred  thousand  francs  that  from  first 
to  last  I  have  spent  on  the  royal  cause.  I  will  speak 
face  to  face  with  the  king  in  his  private  cabinet." 

This  scene  chilled  the  zeal  of  Monsieur  de  Fontaine, 
all  the  more  because  his  requests  for  an  audience 
were  left  without  reply.  He  saw  the  intruders  of  the 
Empire  successful  in  obtaining  various  offices  reseiTed 
under  the  old  monarchy  for  the  best  families. 

"All  is  lost,"  he  said,  one  morning.  "The  king  has 
never  been  anything  but  revolutionary.  If  it  were  not 
for  Monsieur,  who  never  derogates  from  the  true 
regime,  and  consoles  his  faithful  followers,  I  don't 
know  what  would  become  of  the  crown  of  France. 
Their  cursed  constitutional  system  is  the  worst  of  all 
governments,  and  will  never  suit  France.  Louis 
XVIII.  and  Monsieur  Beugnot  ruined  everything  for 
us  at  Saint-Ouen." 

The  count,  in  despair,  was  again  preparing  to  return 
to  his  country  home,  abandoning  all  his  claims  to  in- 
demnity ;  but,  at  that  moment,  the  events  of  the  20th 
of  March  produced  a  new  tempest,  which  threatened  ta 
engulf  the  legitimate  king  and  his  defenders.  Like^ 
those  generous  souls  who  will  not  send  out  their  ser- 
vants in  the  rain,  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  borrowed 
money  on  his  estate  to  follow  the  retreating  monarchy, 
without  knowing  whether  his  emigration  would  stand 


The  Rural  Ball  445 

him  in  better  stead  than  his  former  devotion.  But, 
having  observed  that  the  companions  of  the  king's 
former  exile  stood  higher  in  his  favor  than  those  who 
stayed  behind  and  protested  arms  in  hand  against  the 
Republic,  he  may  have  considered  that  this  journey 
into  foreign  lands  would  be  more  to  his  benefit  than 
a  perilous  and  active  service  in  France.  He  was, 
therefore,  to  use  the  saying  of  our  wittiest  and  ablest 
diplomatist,  one  of  the  five  hundred  faithful  servants 
who  shared  the  exile  of  the  court  to  Ghent,  and  one  of 
the  fifty  thousand  who  returned  from  it. 

During  this  short  absence  of  royalty.  Monsieur  de 
Fontaine  had  the  luck  of  being  employed  by  Louis 
XVIII. ,  and  of  finding  more  than  one  occasion  to  give 
him  proofs  of  great  political  sense  and  sincere  attach- 
ment to  his  person.  One  evening,  when  the  king  had 
nothing  better  to  do,  he  remembered  the  witty  remark 
the  count  had  made  to  him  at  the  Tuileries.  The  old 
Vend^an  did  not  let  the  opportunity  slip ;  he  related 
his  history  so  cleverly  that  the  king,  who  forgot  noth- 
ing, was  likely  to  remember  it  in  due  season.  The 
royal  literary  man  soon  after  noticed  the  graceful  turn 
of  phrase  given  to  certain  notes  he  had  confided  to 
the  count  to  write  for  him;  and  this  little  merit, 
together  with  his  wit,  placed  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  in 
the  king's  memory  as  one  of  the  most  loyal  servants 
of  the  crown.  At  the  second  Restoration  the  count 
was  appointed  one  of  the  envoys  extraordinary  to  go 
through  the  departments  and  pass  judgment  on  the 
guilty  actors  of  the  rebellion ;  he  used  his  terrible  power 
moderately.  As  soon  as  this  temporary  jurisdiction 
was  over  he  entered  the  Council  of  State,  became  a 


446  The  Bural  Ball. 

deputy,  spoke  little,  listened  much,  and  changed  con- 
siderably in  his  opinions.  Certain  circumstances,  un- 
known to  biographers,  brought  him  into  such  intimate 
relations  with  the  king  that  the  witty  monarch  one 
day  said  to  him :  — 

*' Friend  Fontaine,  I  shall  never  dream  of  appointing 
you  to  any  post.  Neither  you  nor  I,  if  we  were  em- 
ployes,  could  keep  our  places,  on  account  of  our  opin- 
ions. Representative  government  has  one  good  thing 
about  it;  it  saves  us  the  trouble  we  formerly  had  in 
getting  rid  of  our  secretaries  of  State.  The  Council 
is  now  a  sort  of  wayside  inn,  where  public  opinion 
sends  us  queer  travellers ;  however,  we  can  always  find 
some  place  to  put  a  faithful  servant." 

This  somewhat  satirical  opening  was  followed  by  a 
special  ordinance  giving  Monsieur  de  Fontaine  the 
administration  of  a  part  of  the  Crown  domain.  In 
consequence  of  the  intelligent  attention  with  which  he 
listened  to  the  sarcasms  of  his  royal  friend,  his  name 
was  often  on  his  Majesty's  lips  whenever  there  was  a 
commission  to  be  created  which  offered  a  lucrative 
appointment.  The  count  had  the  good  sense  to  say 
nothing  about  the  favors  the  king  showed  him;  and 
he  had  the  art  of  entertaining  his  royal  master  by  a 
piquant  manner  of  telling  a  story  during  those  famil- 
iar conversations  in  which  Louis  XVIII.  took  as  much 
delight  as  he  did  in  political  anecdotes,  diplomatic 
cancans  (if  we  may  use  that  word  in  such  connec- 
tion), or  the  reading  and  writing  of  elegant  little 
notes.  It  is  well  known  that  the  details  of  his  "gov- 
ernmentability,"  as  the  august  jester  called  it,  amused 
him  infinitely. 


The  Rural  Ball.  447 

Thanks  to  the  good  sense,  wit,  and  cleverness  of  the 
Comte  de  Fontaine,  every  member  of  his  numerous 
family,  young  as  they  were,  ended,  as  he  said  in  jest 
to  his  master,  by  fastening  like  silk-worms  on  the 
leaves  of  the  budget.  His  eldest  son  obtained  an 
eminent  place  in  the  permanent  magistracy.  The 
second,  a  mere  captain  before  the  Restoration,  received 
a  legion  on  the  return  from  Ghent,  entered  the  Royal 
Guard,  thence  into  the  body-guard,  and  became  a  lieu- 
tenant-general after  the  affair  of  the  Trocadero.  The 
youngest  son,  appointed  first  a  sub-prefect,  was  soon 
after  Master  of  Petitions  and  a  director  of  one  of  the 
municipal  departments  of  the  city  of  Paris.  These 
favors,  given  quietly,  and  kept  as  secret  as  the  count's 
own  favor  with  the  king,  were  showered  upon  him 
unperceived  by  the  public.  Though  the  father  and 
his  three  sons  had  each  sinecures  enough  to  give  them 
a  budgetary  revenue  that  was  nearly  equal  to  that  of 
a  director-general,  their  political  good  luck  excited 
no  envy.  In  those  days  when  the  constitutional  system 
was  just  established,  few  persons  had  any  correct  ideas 
as  to  the  quiet  regions  of  the  budget,  or  the  number 
of  favorites  who  contrived  to  find  there  the  equivalent 
of  destroyed  monasteries. 

Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Fontaine,  who  had  formerly 
boasted  of  never  having  read  the  Charter  and  had 
shown  such  displeasure  at  the  eager  avidity  of  cour- 
tiers, was  not  long  in  proving  to  his  august  master 
that  he  understood  perfectly  well  the  proper  spirit 
and  resources  of  a  representative.  Nevertheless,  in 
spite  of  the  careers  opened  to  his  three  sons.  Monsieur 
de  Fontaine's  numerous  family  was  too  numerous  to 


448  TJie  Rural  Ball 

allow  him  to  become  a  rich  man  all  at  once.  In  addi- 
tion to  his  three  sons  he  had  three  daughters,  and  he 
feared  to  wear  out  the  bounty  of  the  king.  On 
reflection,  he  thought  it  better  not  to  mention  to  his 
august  master  more  than  one  at  a  time  of  these  virgins, 
all  waiting  to  light  their  lamps.  The  king  had  too 
much  sense  of  the  becoming  to  leave  his  work  unfin- 
ished. The  marriage  of  the  first  daughter  with  a 
receiver-general,  Planat  de  Baudry,  was  arranged  by 
one  of  those  short  royal  sentences  which  cost  nothing 
and  bestow  millions.  One  evening,  when  the  king  was 
sulky,  he  laughed  on  learning  the  existence  of  a  second 
Demoiselle  de  Fontaine;  nevertheless,  he  married  her 
to  a  young  magistrate, —  of  bourgeois  descent,  it  is  true, 
but  rich,  and  full  of  talent,  and  he  made  him  a  baron. 
But  when,  the  following  year,  the  Vendean  let  drop  a 
few  words  about  a  Mademoiselle  ]6milie  de  Fontaine, 
the  king  replied,  in  his  sour  little  voice :  — 

^'Amicus  Plato ^  sed  magis  arnica  natio." 

Then,  a  few  days  later,  he  presented  his  "friend 
Fontaine  "  with  a  rather  silly  quatrain,  which  he  called 
an  epigram,  in  which  he  teased  him  about  three 
daughters  produced  so  opportunely  in  the  form  of  a 
trinity.  If  the  chronicle  be  true,  the  monarch  had 
made  the  unity  of  the  three  persons  the  point  of  his 
wit. 

*' Would  the  king  deign  to  change  his  epigram  into 
an  epithalamium,"  suggested  the  count,  endeavoring 
to  turn  this  freak  to  his  profit. 

"I  don't  see  the  rhyme  nor  the  reason  of  that  re- 
mark," said  the  king,  harshly,  not  at  all  pleased  at  any 
joke  about  his  poetry,  however  gentle  it  might  be. 


The  Rural  Ball  449 

From  that  day  his  relations  with  Monsieur  de  Fon- 
taine were  less  cordial.  Kings  like  contradiction 
more  than  we  imagine. 

£milie  de  Fontaine,  like  many  youngest  children, 
was  the  Benjamin  of  the  family,  and  spoiled  by  every- 
one. The  king's  coldness  was  all  the  more  distressing 
to  the  count  because  the  marriage  of  this  petted  dar- 
ling proved  to  be  an  exceedingly  difficult  one  to  carry 
through.  To  understand  the  obstacles  in  the  way  of 
it,  we  must  enter  the  fine  hotel  where  the  government 
official  lodged  with  his  family  at  the  cost  of  the  Civil 
List. 

Emilie  had  spent  her  childhood  on  the  Fontaine 
estate,  enjoying  that  abundance  which  suffices  to  the 
pleasures  of  early  youth.  Her  slightest  wishes  were 
laws  to  her  sisters,  brothers,  mother,  and  even  to  her 
father.  All  her  relations  idolized  her.  As  she  reached 
girlhood  at  the  very  moment  when  her  family  were  at 
the  summit  of  fortune's  favors,  the  enchantment  of  her 
life  continued.  The  luxury  of  Paris  seemed  to  her  as 
natural  as  the  wealth  of  flowers  and  fruit,  and  the  rural 
opulence  which  had  made  the  happiness  of  her  earliest 
years.  She  had  never  been  opposed  in  her  childhood 
in  satisfying  her  joyous  fancies,  and  now,  at  the  age 
of  fifteen,  when  she  was  flung  into  the  vortex  of  the 
great  world,  she  found  herself  still  obeyed. 

Accustomed,  by  degrees,  to  the  enjoyments  of 
wealth,  the  elegancies  of  dress,  gorgeous  salons,  and 
equipages  became  as  necessary  to  her  as  the  flattery, 
true  or  false,  of  compliments,  and  the  fetes  and  vani- 
ties of  the  court.  Like  many  spoiled  children,  she 
tyrannized  over  those  who  loved  her,  and  reserved  her 

29 


450  The  Rural  Ball 

coquetries  for  the  persons  who  took  least  notice  of  her. 
Her  defects  grew  with  her  growth,  and  her  parents 
were  soon  to  gather  the  bitter  fruits  of  this  fatal 
education. 

At  nineteen  years  of  age,  Emilie  de  Fontaine  had 
not  yet  been  willing  to  select,  as  her  husband,  any  of 
the  numerous  young  men  whom  her  father's  policy 
assembled  at  his  fetes.  Although  so  young,  she 
enjoyed  as  much  freedom  in  society  as  though  she 
were  a  woman.  Her  beauty  was  so  remarkable  that 
no  sooner  did  she  enter  a  room  than  she  seemed  to 
reign  there ;  but,  like  kings,  she  had  no  friends,  and 
no  lovers;  a  better  nature  than  hers,  feeling  itself 
the  object  of  so  much  admiration,  would  not  have 
repelled  it  as  she  did.  No  man,  not  even  an  old 
man,  had  nerve  enough  to  contradict  the  opinions  of  a 
girl  the  mere  glance  of  whose  eyes  roused  love  in  a 
cold  heart. 

Brought  up  with  a  care  that  her  sisters  had  lacked, 
she  had  various  accomplishments ;  she  painted  fairly 
well,  she  spoke  English  and  Italian,  played  on  the 
piano  remarkably  well,  and  her  voice,  trained  by  the 
best  masters,  had  a  timbre  which  gave  to  her  singing 
an  irresistible  charm.  Witty  by  nature,  and  well-read 
in  literature,  she  might  have  been  thought,  as  Masca- 
rille  says  of  people  of  quality,  to  have  been  born  into 
the  world  knowing  everything.  She  argued  fluently 
about  Italian  or  Flemish  art,  on  the  middle  ages  or 
the  renaissance,  and  gave  her  opinion  right  and  left 
on  books  ancient  or  modern,  bringing  out,  sometimes 
with  cruel  cleverness,  the  defects  of  some  work.  The 
simplest  of.  her  remarks  were  received  by  an  idolizing 


The  Rural  Ball  451 

crowd  on  their  knees.  She  dazzled  superficial  persons ; 
but  as  for  wiser  ones,  her  natural  tact  enabled  her  to 
recognize  them,  and  to  them  she  was  so  winning,  so 
coquettish,  that  she  escaped  examination  under  cover 
of  her  flatteries.  This  attractive  varnish  covered  an 
indifferent  heart,  an  opinion,  common  to  many  young 
girls,  that  no  one  inhabited  a  sphere  lofty  enough  to 
comprehend  the  excellence  of  her  soul,  and  a  personal 
pride  based  more  on  her  birth  than  on  her  beauty.  In 
the  absence  of  the  more  ardent  sentiments  which, 
sooner  or  later,  ravage  the  heart  of  woman,  Emilie 
spent  her  youthful  ardor  in  an  immoderate  worship  of 
distinction,  expressing  the  utmost  contempt  for  every- 
thing plebeian.  Very  haughty  toward  the  new  nobility, 
she  did  her  best  to  make  her  parents  keep  strictly  to 
the  social  lines  of  the  faubourg  Saint-Germain. 

This  disposition  in  his  daughter  had  not  escaped  the 
observing  eye  of  Monsieur  de  Fontaine,  who  had  more 
than  once  been  made  to  wince  under  her  sarcasms  and 
witty  sayings  at  the  time  of  the  marriage  of  her  elder 
sisters.  Logical  minds  might,  in  fact,  be  surprised 
to  see  the  old  Vendean  giving  his  eldest  daughter  to 
a  receiver-general  who  had  acquired  possession  of  old 
seignorial  property  by  confiscation;  and  the  second 
to  a  magistrate  too  lately  baronified  to  enable  the 
world  to  forget  that  his  father  sold  fagots.  This 
notable  change  in  the  ideas  of  the  count  in  his  sixtieth 
year,  a  period  when  few  men  give  up  their  fixed  be- 
liefs, was  not  due  solely  to  a  residence  in  the  modern 
Babylon,  where  most  provincials  end  by  rubbing  off 
their  peculiarities;  the  new  political  conscience  of  the 
Comte  de  Fontaine  was  due  far  more  to  the  counsels 


452  The  Rural  Ball. 

and  friendship  of  the  king.  That  philosophical 
prince  took  pleasure  in  converting  the  Vendean  to  the 
ideas  which  the  march  of  the  nineteenth  century  and 
the  renovation  of  the  monarchy  demanded.  Louis 
XVIII.  desired  to  fuse  parties  as  Napoleon  had  fused 
men  and  things;  but  the  legitimate  king,  as  wise, 
perhaps,  as  his  rival,  went  to  work  in  an  opposite 
direction.  The  last  head  of  the  House  of  Bourbon 
was  anxious  to  satisfy  the  tiers  etat  and  the  followers 
of  the  Empire  as  the  first  of  the  Napoleons  was  eager 
to  draw  to  himself  the  great  lords  and  to  endow  the 
Church.  Being  the  confidant  of  the  king's  thoughts, 
the  councillor  of  State  became  insensibly  one  of  the 
most  influential  and  wisest  leaders  of  the  moderate 
party,  who  strongly  desired,  in  the  national  interests, 
a  fusion  of  opinions.  He  preached  the  costly  princi- 
ples of  constitutional  government,  and  seconded,  with 
all  his  strength,  the  game  of  political  see-saw  which 
enabled  his  master  to  govern  France  in  the  midst  of 
so  many  agitations.  Perhaps  Monsieur  de  Fontaine 
flattered  himself  that  he  should  reach  a  peerage  by  one 
of  those  legislative  gusts,  the  effects  of  which  take  the 
oldest  politicians  by  surprise.  One  of  the  firmest  of 
his  acquired  principles  consisted  in  no  longer  recog- 
nizing any  other  nobility  in  France  than  that  of  the 
peerage,  because  the  families  of  peers  alone  held  the 
privileges. 

"A  nobility  without  privileges,"  he  said,  ''is  a 
handle  without  a  tool." 

Thus,  equally  far  from  the  party  of  Lafayette  as 
from  that  of  La  Bourdonnaye,  he  favored,  ardently, 
the  general  reconciliation  from  which  was  to  issue  an 


The  Rural  Ball  453 

era  of  new  and  brilliant  destinies  for  France.  He 
tried  to  convince  the  families  who  frequented  his 
salons,  and  those  whom  he  visited,  of  the  few  favorable 
chances  now  to  be  found  in  a  military  or  governmental 
career.  He  advised  mothers  to  put  their  sons  into 
Industrial  and  other  professions,  assuring  them  that 
military  employment  and  the  higher  functions  of 
government  must  end  in  belonging  constitutionally 
to  the  younger  sons  of  peers. 

The  new  ideas  of  the  Comte  de  Fontaine,  and  the 
marriages  which  resulted  of  his  two  elder  daughters, 
had  found  much  opposition  in  the  bosom  of  his  family. 
The  Comtesse  de  Fontaine  continued  faithful  to  the  old 
beliefs,  as  became  a  descendant  of  the  Rohans  through 
her  mother..  Though  she  opposed,  for  a  time,  the 
marriage  of  her  daughters,  she  yielded,  after  a  while, 
as  all  mothers  would  have  done  in  her  place ;  but  she 
insisted  that  her  daughter  fimilie  should  be  married 
in  a  manner  to  satisfy  the  pride  which  she  had  herself 
developed  in  that  young  breast. 

Thus  the  events  which  might  have  brought  only  joy 
to  this  household  produced  a  slight  leaven  of  discord. 
One  of  the  sons  married  Mademoiselle  Mongenod,  the 
daughter  of  a  rich  banker;  another  chose  a  girl  whose 
father,  thrice  a  millionnaire,  had  made  his  money  by 
salt;  the  third  had  taken  to  wife  a  Mademoiselle 
Grossetete,  daughter  of  the  receiver-general  at  Bourges. 
The  three  sisters-in-law  and  the  two  brothers-in-law 
finding  it  for  their  interests  to  enter  the  salons  of  the 
faubourg  Saint-Germain,  agreed  among  themselves 
to  make  a  little  court  around  fimilie.  This  compact 
of  self-interests  and  pride  was  not,  however,  so  thor- 


454  The  Rural  Ball, 

oughly  cemented  that  the  young  sovereign  did  not 
occasionally  excite  revolutions  in  her  kingdom. 
Scenes  which  good  taste  would  have  repudiated  took 
place  in  private  between  the  members  of  this  powerful 
family,  though  they  were  never  allowed  to  affect  the 
outward  show  of  affection  assumed  before  the  public. 

Such  were  the  general  circumstances  of  the  Fontaine 
household  and  its  little  domestic  strife,  when  the  king, 
into  whose  favor  the  count  was  expecting  to  return, 
was  seized  with  his  last  illness.  The  great  politician 
who  had  succeeded  so  well  in  piloting  his  wreck  amid 
the  storm  was  not  long  in  succumbing.  Uncertain  as 
to  the  future,  the  Comte  de  Fontaine  now  made  the 
greatest  efforts  to  collect  about  his  youngest  daughter 
the  elite  of  the  marriageable  young  men.  Those  who 
have  tried  to  solve  the  difficult  problem  of  marrying  a 
proud  and  fanciful  daughter  will  understand  the  wor- 
ries that  came  upon  the  poor  Vendean.  If  this  event 
could  worthily  be  brought  about  in  a  manner  to  please 
his  precious  child,  the  count's  career  in  Paris  for  the 
last  ten  years  would  receive  its  final  crown.  His 
family,  indeed,  by  the  way  it  had  invaded  all  depart- 
ments of  government,  might  be  compared  to  the  house 
of  Austria,  which  threatens  to  overrun  all  Europe 
through  its  alliances.  The  old  count  therefore  per- 
severed against  his  daughter's  objections,  so  much 
did  he  have  her  happiness  at  heart;  though  nothing 
could  be  more  provoking  than  the  way  in  which  that 
impertinent  girl  pronounced  her  decisions  and  judged 
the  merits  of  her  adorers.  It  really  seemed  as  if 
i^milie  was  one  of  those  princesses  in  the  Arabian 
Nights  to  whom  all   the  princes  of  the  earth  were 


The  Rural  Ball.  455 

offered ;  and  her  objections  were  equally  grotesque  and 
senseless;  this  one  was  knock-kneed,  that  one 
squinted,  a  third  was  named  Durand,  a  fourth  limped, 
and  all  were  too  fat.  Livelier,  more  charming,  and 
gayer  than  ever  when  she  had  just  rejected  two  or 
three  suitors,  lllmilie  de  Fontaine  rushed  into  all  the 
winter  fetes,  going  from  ball  to  ball,  examining  with 
her  penetrating  eyes  the  celebrities  of  the  day,  and 
exciting  proposals  which  she  always  rejected. 

Nature  had  given  her,  profusely,  the  advantages 
required  for  the  role  of  Celimene.  Tall  and  slender, 
she  was  able  to  assume  a  bearing  that  was  imposing 
or  volatile,  as  she  pleased.  Her  neck,  a  trifle  too  long, 
enabled  her  to  take  charming  attitudes  of  disdain  or 
sauciness.  She  had  made  herself  a  fruitful  repertory 
of  those  turns  of  the  head  and  feminine  gestures  which 
explained,  cruelly  or  the  reverse  as  the  case  might 
be,  her  smiles  and  words.  Beautiful  black  hair, 
thick  and  well-arched  eyebrows  gave  an  expression  of 
pride  to  her  face  which  coquetry  and  her  mirror  had 
taught  her  to  render  terrible  or  to  modify  by  the  fixity 
or  the  softness  of  her  glance,  by  the  slight  inflexion  or 
the  immobility  of  her  lips,  by  the  coldness  or  the 
grace  of  her  smile.  When  ^milie  wanted  to  lay  hold 
of  a  heart  she  could  make  her  voice  melodious;  but 
when  she  intended  to  paralyze  the  tongue  of  an  indis- 
creet worshipper  she  could  give  it  a  curt  clearness 
which  silenced  him.  Her  pure  white  face  and  alabas- 
ter forehead  were  like  the  limpid  surface  of  a  lake 
which  is  ruflSed  by  the  slight  breeze,  and  returns  to 
its  joyous  serenity  as  the  air  grows  still.  More  than 
one  young  man,  the  victim  of  her  disdain,  had  accused 


466  The  Rural  Ball. 

her  of  playing  comedy.  In  revenge  for  such  speeches 
she  inspired  her  detractors  with  the  desire  to  please 
her,  and  then  subjected  them  pitilessly  to  all  the  arts 
of  her  coquetry.  Among  the  young  girls  of  fashion- 
able society  none  knew  better  than  she  how  to  assume 
a  haughty  air  to  men  of  talent,  or  display  that  insult- 
ing politeness  which  makes  inferiors  of  our  equals. 
"Wherever  she  went  she  seemed  to  receive  homage 
rather  than  courtesies,  and  even  in  the  salon  of  a  prin- 
cess she  had  the  air  of  being  seated  on  a  throne. 

Monsieur  de  Fontaine  perceived,  too  late,  how  much 
the  education  of  his  favorite  daughter  had  been  per- 
verted by  the  mistaken  tenderness  of  her  family.  The 
admiration  which  the  world  gives  to  a  beautiful  young 
woman,  for  which  it  often  avenges  itself  later,  had 
still  further  exalted  ifimilie's  pride  and  increased  her 
self-confidence.  General  approval  had  developed  in 
her  the  selfishness  natural  to  spoiled  children,  who,  like 
kings,  amuse  themselves  on  all  who  approach  them. 
At  this  moment  the  graces  of  youth  and  the  charm  of 
native  talent  hid  these  defects  from  ordinary  eyes; 
but  nothing  escapes  the  eye  of  a  good  father,  and 
Monsieur  de  Fontaine  sometimes  attempted  to  explain 
to  his  daughter  the  true  meaning  of  the  enigmatical 
pages  of  the  book  of  life.  A  vain  attempt !  He  was 
made  too  often  to  groan  over  the  capricious  intracta- 
bility and  sarcastic  cleverness  of  his  wayward  girl  to 
persevere  steadily  in  the  difficult  task  of  correcting  her 
warped  nature.  He  contented  himself,  finally,  with 
giving  her  kindly  and  gentle  counsel  from  time  to 
time ;  but  he  had  the  pain  of  finding  that  his  tender- 
est  words  slid  from  her  heart  like  water  from  polished 


The  Rural  Ball.  457 

marble.  It  took  the  old  Vend^an  some  years  to  per- 
ceive the  condescending  manner  with  which  his  petted 
child  received  his  caresses. 

But  there  were  times  when  with  sudden  caprice, 
apparently  inexplicable  in  a  young  girl,  she  would  shut 
herself  up  and  go  nowhere;  at  such  times  she  com- 
plained that  social  life  separated  her  from  the  heart  of 
her  father  and  mother,  she  grew  jealous  of  every  one, 
even  her  brothers  and  sisters.  Then,  having  taken 
pains  to  create  a  desert  around  her,  the  strange  girl 
threw  the  blame  of  her  dissatisfied  solitude  and  self- 
made  troubles  upon  life.  Armed  with  her  twenty 
years'  experience,  she  railed  at  fate;  not  perceiving 
that  the  principle  of  happiness  is  within  us,  she  cried 
aloud  to  the  things  of  life  to  give  it  to  her.  She  would 
have  gone  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  to  avoid  a  marriage 
like  those  of  her  sisters,  and  yet  in  her  heart  she  was 
horribly  jealous  on  seeing  them  rich  and  happy. 

Sometimes  her  mother  —  even  more  the  victim  of  her 
proceedings  than  her  father  —  was  led  to  think  there 
was  a  tinge  of  madness  in  her.  But  her  behavior  was 
otherwise  explicable.  Nothing  is  more  common  than 
self-asumption  in  the  heart  of  young  girls  placed  high 
on  the  social  ladder  and  gifted  with  great  beauty. 
They  are  often  persuaded  that  their  mother,  now  forty 
to  fifty  years  old,  can  no  longer  sympathize  with  their 
young  souls  or  conceive  their  wants.  They  imagine 
that  most  mothers,  jealous  of  their  daughters,  have  a 
premeditated  design  to  prevent  them  from  receiving 
attentions  or  eclipsing  their  own  claims.  Hence, 
secret  tears  and  muttered  rebellion  against  imaginary 
maternal  tyranny.     From  the  midst  of  these  fancied 


'458  The  Rural  Ball, 

griefs,  which  they  make  real,  they  draw  for  themselves 
a  brilliant  horoscope;  their  magic  consists  in  taking 
dreams  for  realities ;  they  resolve,  in  their  secret  medi- 
tations, to  give  their  heart  and  hand  to  no  man  who 
does  not  possess  such  or  such  qualifications,  and  they 
picture  to  their  imagination  a  type  to  which  their 
accepted  lover  must,  willingly  or  not,  conform.  After 
certain  experience  of  life  and  the  serious  reflections 
which  years  bring  to  them,  and  after  seeing  the  world 
and  its  prosaic  course,  the  glowing  colors  of  their  ideal 
visions  fade ;  and  they  are  quite  astonished  some  fine 
day  to  wake  up  and  find  themselves  happy  without  the 
nuptial  poesy  of  their  dreams.  At  present  Mademoi- 
selle Emilie  de  Fontaine  had  resolved,  in  her  flimsy 
wisdom,  on  a  programme  to  which  a  suitor  must  con- 
form in  order  to  be  accepted.  Hence  her  disdainful 
comments. 

"Though  young,  and  belonging  to  the  old  nobility," 
she  said  to  herself,  *'he  must  also  be  a  peer  of  France, 
or  the  son  of  a  peer.  I  could  never  bear  to  see  our 
arms  on  the  panels  of  my  carriage  without  the  azure 
mantle,  or  be  unable  to  drive  among  the  princes 
at  Longchamps.  Papa  himself  says  the  peerage  is 
going  to  be  the  highest  dignity  in  France.  He  must 
also  be  a  soldier,  but  resign,  if  I  wish  him  to ;  and  I 
want  him  decorated,  so  that  sentries  may  salute  us." 

But  the  above  qualifications  would  amount  to  very 
little,  she  thought,  if  this  being  did  not  also  possess 
great  amiability,  an  elegant  manner,  intellect,  and  a 
slender  form.  Slenderness,  grace  of  body,  fugitive 
though  it  might  be,  especially  under  a  representative 
government,    was  absolutely   indispensable.      Made- 


The  Rural  Ball.  459 

moiselle  de  Fontaine  had  a  certain  vision  in  her  mind's 
eye  which  served  her  as  model.  The  young  man  who 
at  her  first  glance  did  not  meet  the  required  conditions 
never  obtained  a  second. 

"Oh,  heavens!  how  fat  he  is!"  was  with  her  the 
expression  of  an  abiding  contempt. 

To  hear  her,  one  would  think  that  persons  of  honest 
corpulence  were  incapable  of  feelings,  dangerous  hus- 
bands, beings  unworthy  of  existing  in  civilized  soci- 
ety. Though  considered  a  beauty  at  the  East,  plump- 
ness was  to  her  eyes  a  misfortune  in  women  and  a 
crime  in  men.  These  fantastic  opinions  amused  her 
hearers,  thanks  to  a  certain  liveliness  of  elocution. 
Nevertheless,  the  count  felt  that  his  daughter's  preten- 
sions would,  sooner  or  later,  become  a  subject  of  ridi- 
cule, especially  to  clear-sighted  women  of  little  charity. 
He  also  feared  that  as  she  grew  older  her  fantastic 
ideas  might  change  to  ill-breeding;  and  he  saw  plainly 
that  more  than  one  actor  in  her  comedy,  displeased  at 
her  refusal,  was  only  waiting  for  some  unlucky  inci- 
dent to  avenge  himself.  Consequently,  during  the 
first  winter  after  the  accession  of  Charles  X.,  he 
redoubled  his  efforts,  seconded  by  his  sons  and  his 
sons-in-law,  to  fill  his  salons  with  the  best  marriage- 
able men  in  Paris,  trusting  that  at  last  this  assemblage 
of  suitors  would  put  an  end  to  his  daughter's  fancies, 
and  force  her  to  decide.  He  felt  an  inward  satisfac- 
tion in  having  done  his  duty  as  a  father;  but  no  result 
appearing,  he  resolved  to  have  a  firm  explanation 
with  her,  and  toward  the  end  of  Lent  she  was  sum- 
moned to  his  study. 

She  came  in  singing  an  air  from  the  "Barbiere." 


460  Tlie  Bural  Ball 

*' Good-morning,  papa.  What  do  you  want  me  tot 
so  early  ?  " 

The  words  were  chanted  as  if  they  were  the  last 
line  of  the  air  she  was  singing ;  then  she  kissed  the 
count,  not  with  that  familiar  tenderness  which  makes 
the  filial  sentiment  so  sweet  a  thing,  but  carelessly, 
like  a  mistress,  sure  of  pleasing,  whatever  she  may  do. 

*'My  dear  child,"  said  Monsieur  de  Fontaine, 
gravely,  "I  have  sent  for  you  to  talk  very  seriously 
about  your  future.  It  has  now  become  a  necessity  for 
you  to  choose  a  husband  who  will  make  your  happiness 
lasting  —  " 

"My  dear  papa,"  replied  ^fimilie,  in  her  most  caress- 
ing tones,  "the  armistice  that  you  and  I  agreed  upon 
as  to  my  lovers  has  not  yet  expired." 

"^milie,  you  must  cease  to  jest  on  a  subject  so 
important.  For  some  time  past  all  the  efforts  of  those 
who  love  you  truly,  my  child,  have  been  directed  to 
finding  you  a  suitable  establishment,  and  you  would 
be  guilty  of  the  greatest  ingratitude  if  you  made  light 
of  the  interest  which  I  am  not  the  only  one  to  spend 
upon  you." 

Hearing  these  words,  the  young  girl  selected  an 
arm-chair  and  carried  it  to  the  other  side  of  the  fire- 
place, directly  opposite  to  her  father,  sat  down  in  it 
with  too  solemn  an  air  not  to  be  sarcastic,  and  crossed 
her  arms  over  a  pelerine  of  innumerable  snowy  ruches. 
Glancing  covertly  at  her  father's  anxious  face,  she 
said,  saucily:  — 

"I  never  heard  you  say,  papa,  that  the  heads  of 
departments  made  their  communications  in  their 
dressing-gowns.     But,  no  matter,"  she  added,  smil- 


The  Rural  Ball  461 

ing,  "the  populace  are  not  punctilious.  Now,  then, 
bring  in  your  bill,  and  make  your  official  representa- 
tions." 

"I  shall  not  always  be  able  to  make  them,  my  silly 
child.  Now  listen  to  me,  Emilie.  I  do  not  intend 
much  longer  to  compromise  my  character  for  dignity, 
which  is  the  inheritance  of  my  children,  by  recruiting 
this  regiment  of  suitors  whom  you  send  to  the  right- 
about every  spring.  Already  you  have  been  the  cause 
of  dangerous  dissensions  with  certain  families.  I 
hope  that  you  will  now  understand  more  plainly  the 
difficulties  of  your  position  and  mine.  You  are 
twenty-two  years  old,  my  dear,  and  you  ought  to  have 
been  married  at  least  three  years  ago.  Your  brothers 
and  sisters  are  well  and  happily  established.  I  must 
tell  you  now  that  the  expenses  accruing  from  those 
marriages,  and  the  style  in  which  your  mother  keeps 
up  this  household,  have  absorbed  so  much  of  our 
property  that  I  cannot  afford  to  give  you  a  dowry  of 
more  than  a  hundred  thousand  francs.  It  is  my  duty 
to  make  ample  provision  for  your  mother,  whose  future 
must  not  be  sacrificed  to  that  of  her  children;  I 
should  ill  reward  her  devotion  to  me  in  the  days  of 
my  poverty  if  I  did  not  leave  her  enough  to  continue 
the  comfort  she  now  enjoys.  I  wish  you  to  see,  my 
child,  that  your  dowry  will  not  be  in  keeping  with  the 
ideas  of  grandeur  you  now  indulge —  Now,  don't  be 
sulky,  my  dear,  but  let  us  talk  reasonably.  Among 
the  various  young  men  who  are  looking  for  wives,  have 
you  noticed  Monsieur  Paul  de  Manerville?" 

*'0h!  he  lisps;  and  he  is  always  looking  at  his  foot 
because  he  thinks  it  small.  Besides,  he  is  blonde,  and 
I  don't  like  fair  men.'* 


462  The  Rural  Ball 

"Well,  Monsieur  de  Beaudenord?" 

"He  is  not  noble.  He  is  awkward  and  fat;  more- 
over, he  is  so  dark.  It  is  a  pity  that  pair  could  n't 
exchange  points;  the  first  could  give  his  figure  and 
his  name  to  the  second,  who  might  return  the  gift  in 
hair,  and  then  —  perhaps  —  " 

"What  have  you  to  say  against  Monsieur  de  Ras- 
tignac  ?  " 

"Madame  de  Nucingen  has  made  a  banker  of  him," 
she  said,  maliciously. 

"And  our  relation,  the  Vicomte  de  Portenduere ?  " 

"That  boy!  who  doesn't  know  how  to  dance;  be- 
sides, he  has  no  fortune.  Moreover,  papa,  none  of 
those  men  have  titles.  I  wish  to  be  at  least  a  coun- 
tess, like  my  mother." 

"Have  you  seen  no  one  this  winter  who  —  " 

"No  one,  papa." 

"Then  what  do  you  want?" 

"The  son  of  a  peer  of  France." 

"You  are  crazy,  my  child! "  said  Monsieur  de  Fon- 
taine, rising. 

Suddenly  he  looked  up  as  if  to  ask  of  heaven  another 
dose  of  resignation;  then,  with  a  look  of  fatherly  pity 
on  the  girl,  who  was  somewhat  touched,  he  took  her 
hand,  pressed  it  between  his  own,  and  said,  ten- 
derly :  — 

"God  is  my  witness,  poor,  misguided  girl!  that  I 
have  conscientiously  done  my  duty  by  you —  Con- 
scientiously, do  I  say?  I  mean  lovingly,  my  ^milie. 
Yes,  God  knows  that  I  have  offered  you,  this  winter, 
more  than  one  honorable  man  whose  character  and 
morals   were  known   to   me  as  being  worthy  of   my 


The  Bural  Ball.  463 

child.  My  task  is  done,  lilmilie,  from  this  day 
forth  I  leave  you  mistress  of  your  own  fate ;  and  I  feel 
both  fortunate  and  unfortunate  in  finding  myself 
relieved  of  the  heaviest  of  all  the  paternal  obligations. 
I  do  not  know  how  long  you  may  hear  a  voice  which 
has,  alas !  never  been  stern  to  you ;  but  it  will  never 
again  say  more  to  you  than  this :  Remember  that  con- 
jugal happiness  does  not  depend  as  much  on  brilliant 
qualities  or  on  wealth,  as  on  reciprocal  esteem  and 
affection.  Married  happiness  is,  of  its  nature, 
modest  and  not  dazzling.  My  daughter,  I  will  accept 
whoever  you  may  present  to  me  as  my  son-in-law,  but 
if  you  make  an  unhappy  marriage,  remember  that  you 
have  no  right  to  blame  your  father.  I  will  not  refuse 
to  promote  your  wishes  and  help  you ;  but  your  choice 
must  be  serious  and  definite.  I  will  not  compromise 
the  respect  due  to  my  character  any  longer  by  promot- 
ing your  present  course." 

Her  father's  affection  and  his  solemn  accents  did 
really  affect  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  sincerely ;  but 
she  concealed  her  feelings,  and  sprang  gayly  on  his 
knee,  — for  the  count  was  again  seated,  and  trembling 
with  agitation.  She  caressed  and  coaxed  him  so 
prettily  that  the  old  man's  brow  began  to  clear,  and 
when  she  thought  him  sufficiently  recovered  from  his 
painful  emotion  she  said,  in  a  low  voice:  — 

"I  thank  you  for  your  great  kindness,  dear  papa. 
Is  it  so  very  difficult  to  marry  a  peer  of  France?  I 
have  heard  you  say  they  were  made  in  batches.  Ah! 
you  surely  won't  refuse  me  your  advice?  " 

"  No,  my  poor  child,  no ;  indeed,  I  will  often  say  to 
you,  *  Beware! '     Remember  that  the  peerage  is  too 


464  The  Rural  Ball, 

new  a  thing  in  our  '  governmentability,'  as  the  late 
king  used  to  say,  for  peers  to  possess  large  fortunes. 
Those  who  are  rich  want  to  become  richer,  and  they 
are  looking  for  heiresses  for  their  sons  wherever  they 
can  find  them.  It  will  be  two  hundred  years  before 
the  necessity  they  are  under  to  make  rich  marriages 
dies  out.  I  don't  need,  I  think,  to  warn  a  girl  like 
you  of  the  difficulties  in  your  way.  One  thing  I  am 
sure  of;  you  will  never  be  misled  by  a  handsome  face 
or  flattering  manners  to  rashly  attribute  either  sense 
or  virtue  to  a  stranger;  you  have  your  heart,  like  a 
good  horseman,  too  well  in  hand  for  that.  My 
daughter,  I  can  only  wish  you  good  luck." 

"You  are  laughing  at  me,  papa.  Well,  listen.  I 
declare  to  you  that  I  will  go  and  die  in  Mademoiselle 
de  Conde's  convent  sooner  than  not  be  the  wife  of  a 
peer  of  France." 

She  sprang  from  her  father's  arms  and  ran  off,  proud 
of  being  her  own  mistress,  and  singing,  as  she  went, 
the  Cava  non  dubitare  in  the  "Matrimonio  Segreto." 

At  dessert  that  day,  Madame  Planat,  ^milie's 
elder  sister,  began  to  speak  of  a  young  American,  the 
possessor  of  a  great  fortune,  who  was  passionately  in 
love  with  the  girl,  and  had  lately  made  her  very  bril- 
liant proposals. 

"He  is  a  banker,  I  think,"  said  ilmilie,  carelessly. 
"I  don't  like  financial  people." 

"But,  Emilie,"  said  the  Baron  de  Vilaine,  the  hus- 
band of  her  second  sister,  "you  don't  like  the  magis- 
tracy any  better ;  so  that  really  if  you  reject  all  men 
of  property  without  titles,  I  don't  see  into  what  class 
you  can  go  for  a  husband." 


The  Eural  Ball,  465 

"Especially,  £milie,  with  your  sentiments  on  fat 
men,"  added  her  brother,  the  lieutenant-general. 

"I  know  very  well  what  I  want,"  replied  the  girl. 

"My  sister  wants  a  noble  name,  a  fine  young  man, 
a  glorious  future,  and  a  hundred  thousand  francs 
a  year,  — Monsieur  de  Marsay,  for  instance,"  said  the 
Baroune  de  Fontaine. 

"I  know  this,  my  dear  sister,"  returned  ifemilie. 
"I  shall  not  make  a  foolish  marriage,  as  I  have  seen 
so  many  people  do.  Now,  to  avoid,  in  future,  these 
nuptial  discussions,  I  here  declare  that  I  shall  regard 
as  a  personal  enemy  any  one  who  says  another  word 
to  me  about  marriage." 

A  great-uncle  of  ^^milie,  a  vice-admiral  whose  for- 
tune had  just  been  increased  by  twenty  thousand  francs 
a  year  through  the  law  of  indemnity,  an  old  man  of 
seventy,  assumed  the  right  of  saying  harsh  truths 
when  he  pleased  to  his  grand-niece,  whom  he  idolized. 
He  now  remarked,  as  if  to  put  a  stop  to  the  sharpness 
of  the  conversation :  — 

"Don't  tease  my  poor  ^milie;  can't  you  see  that  she 
is  waiting  for  the  majority  of  the  Due  de  Bordeaux?  " 

A  general  laugh  replied  to  the  old  man's  jest. 

"Take  care  I  don't  marry  you,  you  old  goose,"  re- 
torted the  girl,  whose  last  word  was  fortunately  lost 
in  the  hubbub. 

"My  children,"  said  Madame  de  Fontaine,  endeav- 
oring to  soften  this  impertinence,  "^milie,  like  the 
rest  of  you,  will  take  her  mother's  advice.  " 

"Oh,  heavens!  no;  I  shall  take  no  one's  advice  but 
my  own  in  a  matter  which  concerns  me  alone,"  said 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  very  distinctly. 

80 


466  The  Rural  Ball, 

All  eyes  turned  to  the  head  of  the  family  on  hearing 
this  speech.  Every  one  seemed  curious  to  see  how 
the  count  would  take  such  an  attack  on  his  dignity. 
Not  only  did  the  worthy  Vendean  enjoy  the  considera- 
tion of  the  world  at  large,  but,  more  fortunate  than 
many  fathers,  he  was  greatly  esteemed  by  his  own 
family,  all  the  members  of  which  recognized  the  solid 
qualities  which  had  enabled  him  to  make  the  fortune 
of  those  belonging  to  him.  He  was  therefore  sur- 
rounded by  that  respect  and  even  reverence  which 
English  families  and  some  aristocratic  families  on  the 
continent  show  to  the  head  of  their  genealogical  tree. 
Silence  fell;  the  eyes  of  every  one  turned  from  the 
haughty  and  sullen  face  of  the  spoiled  child  to  the 
stern  faces  of  her  father  and  mother. 

"I  have  left  Emilie  mistress  of  her  own  fate,"  was 
the  reply  of  the  count,  made  in  a  deep  voice. 

All  present  looked  at  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine 
with  a  curiosity  that  was  mingled  with  pity.  The 
words  seemed  to  say  that  paternal  kindness  was  weary 
of  endeavoring  to  control  a  character  which  the  family 
knew  to  be  uncontrollable.  The  sons-in-law  mur- 
mured disapprovingly;  the  brothers  looked  at  their 
wives  sarcastically.  From  that  moment,  none  of  them 
took  any  further  interest  in  the  marriage  of  the  in- 
tractable girl.  Her  old  uncle  was  the  only  person 
who,  in  his  naval  parlance,  dared  to  board  her,  and 
he  did,  occasionally,  receive  her  fire  and  return  her 
broadside  for  broadside. 


The  Bural  Ball.  467 


THE  BALL. 

When  the  summer  season  came  (after  the  vote  on 
the  budget)  this  family,  a  true  likeness  of  the  parlia- 
mentary families  on  the  other  side  of  the  British  Chan- 
nel, which  have  a  foothold  in  all  ministries  and  ten 
votes  in  the  Commons,  flew  ofif  like  a  covey  of  birds 
to  the  beautiful  regions  of  Aulnay,  Antony,  and 
Chatenay.  The  opulent  receiver-general,  the  husband 
of  the  eldest  sister,  had  lately  bought  a  country-seat 
in  that  vicinity,  and  though  Emilie  despised  all  ple- 
beians, that  sentiment  did  not  lead  her  so  far  as  to  dis- 
dain the  advantages  of  bourgeois  wealth.  She  there- 
fore accompanied  her  sister  to  her  sumptuous  villa, 
less  from  affection  for  the  members  of  her  family,  who 
went  with  them,  than  from  the  rigid  rule  of  good  society, 
which  imperiously  requires  all  women  who  respect 
themselves  to  leave  Paris  during  the  summer  season. 
The  verdant  meadows  of  Sceaux  fulfilled  these  exac- 
tions of  good  taste  and  public  duty  suitably,  and 
fimilie  agreed  to  go  there. 

As  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  reputation  of  the  rural 
ball  of  Sceaux  has  ever  reached  beyond  the  limits  of 
the  department  of  the  Seine,  it  is  necessary  to  give 
a  few  details  on  this  hebdomadal  fgte,  which  threat- 
ened at  that  time  to  become  an  institution.     The  envi* 


468  The  Bural  Ball, 

rons  of  the  little  town  of  Sceaux  enjoys  the  reputation 
of  delightful  scenery.  Perhaps,  however,  it  is  really 
commonplace,  and  owes  its  celebrity  to  the  stupid 
ignorance  of  the  Parisian  bourgeoisie,  who,  issuing 
from  the  close  and  narrow  streets  in  which  they  are 
buried,  incline  naturally  to  admire  the  plains  of  Beauce. 
Nevertheless,  as  the  poetic  woods  of  Aulnay,  the  hill- 
sides of  Antony,  and  the  valley  of  the  Bievre  are  in- 
habited by  artists  who  have  travelled,  by  foreigners, 
by  persons  difficult  to  please,  and  by  a  number  of 
pretty  women  who  are  not  without  taste,  we  may  sup- 
pose that  the  transient  Parisian  visitors  were  right. 

But  Sceaux  possesses  another  charm  in  addition  to 
its  scenery,  not  less  attractive  to  Parisians.  In  the 
middle  of  a  garden  where  many  delightful  points  of 
view  are  obtained,  stands  an  immense  rotunda,  open 
on  all  sides,  the  light  and  airy  dome  of  which  is  sup- 
ported by  elegant  pillars.  This  rural  dais  shelters  a 
ballroom.  It  seldom  happens  that  even  the  most  con- 
ventional and  proper  of  the  neighboring  proprietors 
and  their  families  do  not  converge  at  least  once  or 
twice  during  the  season  toward  this  palace  of  the  vil- 
lage Terpsichore,  either  in  brilliant  cavalcades,  or  in 
light  and  elegant  carriages  which  cover  with  dust 
philosophical  pedestrians.  The  hope  of  meeting  there 
some  women  of  the  great  world  and  being  seen  by 
them,  the  hope  (less  often  betrayed)  of  meeting  young 
peasant-women  as  demure  as  judges,  brings,  Sunday 
after  Sunday,  to  the  ball  of  Sceaux,  swarms  of  law- 
yers' clerks,  disciples  of  Esculapius,  and  other  youths 
whose  fresh  complexions  are  discoloring  behind  the 
counters  of  Paris.     Quite  a  number  of  bourgeois  mar- 


The  Rural  Ball,  469 

riages  are  yearly  planned  to  the  sounds  of  the  orches- 
tra, which  occupies  the  centre  of  the  circular  hall.  If 
that  could  speak,  what  tales  of  love  it  might  tell! 

This  interesting  medley  of  classes  made  the  ball  of 
Sceaux,  in  those  days,  more  spicy  and  amusing  than 
other  rural  balls  in  the  neighborhood  of  Paris,  over 
which  its  rotunda,  the  beauty  of  its  site,  and  the 
charms  of  its  garden,  gave  it  additional  advantages. 
Emilie  at  once  proclaimed  her  desire  to  "play  popu- 
lace "  at  this  lively  rural  scene,  and  declared  she 
should  take  an  enormous  amount  of  pleasure  in  it. 
Her  family  were  astonished  at  this  fancy  for  mixing  in 
such  a  mob;  but  to  play  at  incognito  has  always  had 
a  singular  charm  for  persons  of  rank.  Mademoiselle 
de  Fontaine  expected  to  derive  much  amusement  from 
citizen  manners ;  she  saw  herself  leaving  in  more  than 
one  bourgeois  soul  the  memory  of  a  look  or  a  fasci- 
nating smile;  she  laughed  to  think  of  the  awkward 
dancing,  and  she  sharpened  her  pencils  in  preparation 
for  the  scenes  with  which  she  expected  to  enrich  her 
satirical  album. 

Sunday  arrived  to  put  an  end  to  her  impatience. 
The  party  from  Planat  made  their  way  on  foot  to  avoid 
giving  annoyance  to  the  rest  of  the  company.  The 
family  had  dined  early.  The  month  of  May  was  a 
delightful  season  for  such  an  escapade.  Mademoiselle 
de  Fontaine's  first  sensation  was  one  of  surprise  at 
finding  under  the  rotunda  a  number  of  persons  dancing 
quadrilles  who  appeared  to  belong  to  the  best  society. 
She  saw,  indeed,  here  and  there,  a  few  young  men 
who  had  evidently  put  their  month's  savings  into  the 
joy  of  shining  for  this  one  day;  but,  on  the  whole, 


470  The  Rural  Ball. 

there  was  little  of  satire  to  glean  and  none  to  harvest. 
She  was  amazed  to  find  pleasure  arrayed  in  cambric  so 
much  like  pleasure  robed  in  satin,  and  the  citizen 
female  dancing  with  as  much  grace  as  the  noble  lady, 
sometimes  with  more.  Most  of  the  toilets  were 
simple  and  becoming.  Those  of  the  assembly  who 
represented  the  lords  of  the  soil,  namely,  the  peasants, 
kept  in  the  background  with  remarkable  politeness. 
Mademoiselle  flmilie  would  have  been  forced  to  make 
a  study  of  the  various  elements  composing  the  scene 
before  discovering  the  slightest  subject  of  ridicule. 

But,  as  it  happened,  she  had  no  time  for  malicious 
criticism,  no  leisure  to  listen  for  those  absurd  speeches 
which  satirical  minds  delight  to  fasten  on.  The 
proud  girl  suddenly  met  in  the  midst  of  this  vast  field 
a  flower,  —  the  comparison  is  in  order,  —  a  flower,  the 
color  and  brilliancy  of  which  acted  on  her  imagination 
with  the  prestige  of  novelty.  It  sometimes  happens 
that  we  look  at  a  gown,  a  curtain,  or  a  bit  of  white 
paper  so  abstractedly  that  we  do  not  at  first  see  some 
stain,  or  sonje  vivid  beauty  which  later  strikes  our 
eye  as  if  it  had  just  come  to  the  place  where  we  see 
it.  By  a  species  of  moral  phenomenon  of  the  same 
kind.  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  now  beheld  in  a  young 
man  the  type  of  those  external  perfections  she  had 
dreamed  of  for  years. 

Seated  on  one  of  the  common  chairs  which  sur- 
rounded the  dancing  circle,  she  had  carefully  placed 
herself  at  the  extremity  of  the  group  formed  by  her 
family  party,  so  as  to  be  able  to  rise  and  move  about 
as  she  fancied.  She  sat  there,  turning  her  opera-glass 
impertinently   on   all   around  her,  even  those  in  her 


The  Rural  Ball,  471 

immediate  vicinity ;  and  she  was  making  remarks  as 
she  might  have  done  in  a  gallery  over  portraits  or 
genre  pictures,  when  suddenly  her  eyes  were  caught  by 
a  face  which  seemed  to  have  been  placed  there,  ex- 
pressly, in  the  strongest  light,  to  exhibit  a  personage 
out  of  all  proportion  with  the  rest  of  the  scene. 

The  stranger,  dreamy,  and  apparently  solitary, 
leaned  lightly  against  one  of  the  columns  that  sup- 
ported the  roof,  with  his  arms  folded,  slightly  bending 
forward  as  though  a  painter  were  taking  his  portrait. 
His  attitude,  though  proud  and  full  of  grace,  was 
entirely  free  from  affectation.  No  gesture  showed 
that  he  held  his  face  at  three-quarters,  inclining 
slightly  to  the  right,  like  Alexander  and  like  Byron 
and  several  other  great  men,  for  the  purpose  of  attract- 
ing attention.  His  eyes  followed  the  motions  of  a 
lady  who  was  dancing,  and  their  expression  betrayed 
some  powerful  sentiment.  His  slim  and  agile  figure 
recalled  the  proportions  of  the  Apollo.  Fine  black 
hair  curled  naturally  on  his  high  forehead.  Made- 
moiselle de  Fontaine,  at  her  first  glance,  noticed  the 
fineness  of  his  linen,  the  freshness  of  his  kid  gloves, 
evidently  from  the  best  maker,  and  the  smallness  of 
a  foot  well-shod  in  a  boot  of  Irish  leather.  He  wore 
none  of  those  worthless  trinkets  which  a  counter- 
Lovelace  or  the  fops  of  the  National  Guard  affect.  A 
black  ribbon,  to  which  his  eyeglass  was  attached, 
alone  floated  over  a  waistcoat  of  elegant  shape. 
Never  had  the  exacting  jfimilie  seen  the  eyes  of  man 
shaded  by  lashes  so  long  and  so  curving.  Melancholy 
and  passion  were  both  in  that  face,  the  tone  of  which 
was  olive,  and  the  features  manly.     His  mouth  seemedi 


472  The  Rural  Ball, 

ready  to  smile  and  to  raise  the  corners  of  its  eloquent 
lips;  but  this  expression,  far  from  denoting  gayety, 
revealed,  on  the  contrary,  a  certain  graceful  sadness. 
There  was  too  much  future  promise  in  that  head,  too 
much  distinction  in  the  whole  person  not  to  make  an 
observer  desire  to  know  him;  the  most  perceptive 
observer  would  have  seen  that  here  was  a  man  of 
talent,  brought  to  this  village  ball  by  some  powerful 
interest. 

This  mass  of  observations  cost  ^milie*s  quick  mind 
but  a  moment's  attention,  during  which  moment,  how- 
ever, this  privileged  man,  subjected  to  severe  analysis, 
became  the  object  of  her  secret  admiration.  She  said 
to  herself,  "He  is  a  noble,  — he  must  be."  Then  she 
rose  suddenly  and  went,  followed  by  her  brother,  the 
lieutenant-general,  toward  the  column  on  which  the 
stranger  leaned,  pretending  to  watch  the  quadrille,  but 
not  losing,  thanks  to  an  optical  manoeuvre  familiar  to 
woman,  a  single  one  of  the  young  man's  movements 
as  she  approached  him.  The  stranger  politely  yielded 
his  place  to  the  new-comers  and  went  to  another  col- 
umn, against  which  he  leaned.  Emilie,  more  piqued 
at  this  civility  than  she  would  have  been  by  an  imper- 
tinence, began  to  talk  to  her  brother  in  a  raised  tone 
of  voice,  louder  than  good  taste  admitted.  She  nodded 
and  shook  her  head,  multiplied  her  gestures,  and 
laughed  without  much  reason,  far  less  to  amuse  her 
brother  than  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  imperturb- 
able stranger.  None  of  these  little  artifices  succeeded ; 
and  then  it  occurred  to  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  to 
follow  the  direction  of  the  young  man's  glances.  On 
doing  so,  she  saw  at  once  the  cause  of  his  absorption. 


The  Rural  Ball.  473 

In  the  middle  of  the  quadrille  directly  before  her,  a 
pale  young  girl  was  dancing,  who  was  like  those 
Scottish  deities  whom  Girodet  has  painted  in  his  vast 
composition  of  French  warriors  received  by  Ossian. 
Emilie  thought  at  first  she  must  either  be  or  belong 
to  a  distinguished  lady  who  had  lately  come  to  occupy 
a  neighboring  country-house.  Her  partner  was  a 
young  man  of  fifteen,  with  red  hands,  nankeen  trou- 
sers, blue  coat,  and  white  shoes,  which  proved  that  her 
love  for  dancing  made  her  not  difl3cult  to  please  in  the 
matter  of  partners.  Her  movements  did  not  show  the 
languor  of  her  apparent  feebleness ;  but  a  faint  flush 
colored  her  delicate  cheeks  and  was  beginning  to 
spread  over  her  face.  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  went 
nearer  to  the  quadrille  in  order  to  examine  the  young 
stranger  when  she  returned  to  her  place,  while  the 
vis-a-vis  repeated  the  figure  she  had  just  executed. 
But  at  this  moment  the  young  man  advanced,  stooped 
to  the  pretty  dancer,  and  said,  in  a  masterful,  yet 
gentle  tone  of  voice,  these  words,  which  Emilie  dis- 
tinctly overheard :  — 

''Clara,  my  child,  do  not  dance  any  more." 
Clara  gave  a  little  pout,  nodded  her  head  in  sign  of 
acquiescence,  and  ended  by  smiling.  After  the  dance 
was  over  the  young  man  took  all  the  precautions  of  a 
lover  in  wrapping  a  cashmere  shawl  around  the  girl's 
shoulders,  and  making  her  sit  away  from  the  draught. 
Presently  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  saw  them  rise 
and  walk  round  the  enclosure  like  persons  intending 
to  take  their  departure,  and  she  followed  them  hastily, 
under  pretence  of  admiring  the  views  from  the  garden. 
Her  brother  lent  himself  with  malicious  good-humor 


474  The  Bural  Ball. 

to  the  various  caprices  of  this  vagabond  ramble, 
itlmilie  soon  perceived  her  elegant  couple  getting  into 
a  tilbury  held  by  a  groom  on  horseback,  and  at  the 
moment  when  the  young  man  gathered  up  the  reins 
she  obtained  from  him  one  of  those  glances  that  are 
aimlessly  cast  upon  a  crowd ;  next,  she  had  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  him  turn  twice  to  look  at  her  again. 
The  lady  did  likewise.     Was  she  jealous? 

"I  presume  that  now,  having  examined  the  garden 
thoroughly,"  said  her  brother,  *'we  may  return  to  the 
dance." 

*'I  am  willing,"  she  answered.  "Do  you  think  that 
young  girl  can  be  a  sister  of  Lady  Dudley?  " 

"Lady  Dudley  may  have  a  sister  staying  with  her," 
replied  the  Baron  de  Fontaine,  "but  she  can't  be  a 
young  girl." 

The  next  day  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  was  pos- 
sessed with  a  strong  desire  to  ride  on  horseback. 
Little  by  little  she  brought  her  old  uncle  and  her 
brothers  to  accompany  her  daily  in  certain  early  morn- 
ing rides,  very  beneficial,  she  declared,  for  her  health. 
She  particularly  delighted  in  the  country  about  Lady 
Dudley's  house.  But  in  spite  of  her  cavalry  manoeu- 
vres she  did  not  find  the  stranger  as  promptly  as  her 
joyous  hopes  predicted.  Several  times  she  returned 
to  the  rural  ball,  but  in  vain.  The  stranger  who  had 
fallen  from  heaven  to  rule  her  dreams  and  adorn  them 
appeared  not  again.  Nothing  spurs  the  dawning  love 
of  a  young  girl  like  an  obstacle;  but  there  was,  never- 
theless, a  moment  when  Mademoiselle  l^milie  de  Fon- 
taine was  on  the  point  of  abandoning  her  strange  and 
secret  quest,  despairing  of  the  success  of  an  enterprise 


The  Rural  Ball  475 

the  singularity  of  which  may  give  some  idea  of  her 
daring  character.  She  might,  indeed,  have  ridden 
about  the  neighborhood  indefinitely  without  meeting 
her  unknown  hero.  Clara  —  since  Clara  was  the  name 
that  lilmilie  had  overheard  —  was  not  English;  she  did 
not  belong  to  Lady  Dudley's  household,  and  the  gen- 
tleman who  accompanied  her  did  not  reside  near  the 
balmy  groves  of  Chatenay. 

One  evening,  as  fimilie  was  riding  alone  with  her 
uncle,  who  enjoyed  a  cessation  of  hostilities  from  his 
gout  during  the  summer,  she  met  the  carriage  of  Lady 
Dudley.  That  illustrious  foreigner  was  accompanied 
by  Monsieur  Felix  de  Vandenesse.  Illmilie  recog- 
nized the  handsome  couple,  and  her  past  suppositions 
were  dissolved  like  a  dream.  Provoked,  like  any 
other  woman  frustrated  in  her  scheme,  she  turned  her 
horse  and  rode  so  rapidly  homeward  that  her  uncle  had 
all  the  trouble  in  the  world  to  keep  up  with  her. 

"Apparently  I  'm  too  old  to  understand  these  young 
things,"  thought  the  old  sailor  as  he  urged  his  horse  to 
a  gallop.  "Or  perhaps  the  youth  of  these  days  is  n't 
the  same  as  it  was  in  mine —  But  what's  my  niece 
about  now?  Look  at  her,  making  her  horse  take  short 
steps,  like  a  gendarme  patrolling  Paris.  Would  n't 
one  think  she  was  trying  to  hem  in  that  worthy  fellow, 
who  looks  like  an  author  composing  poetry?  Yes,  to 
to  be  sure,  he  has  an  album  in  his  hand!  Faith! 
what  a  fool  I  am!  no  doubt  that's  the  young  man 
we  've  been  chasing  all  along." 

At  this  thought  the  old  sailor  checked  the  speed  of 
his  horse  so  as  to  reach  his  niece  as  noiselessly  as  he 
could.     In  spite  of  the  veil  which  years  had  drawn 


476  The  Rural  Ball 

before  his  gray  eyes  the  Comte  de  Kergarouet  aav^ 
enough  to  note  the  signs  of  some  unusual  agitation  in 
the  girl,  in  spite  of  the  indifference  she  endeavored  to 
assume.  Her  piercing  eyes  were  fixed  in  a  sort  of 
stupor  on  the  stranger,  who  was  tranquilly  walking  in 
front  of  her. 

*'That*s  surely  it!"  thought  the  old  gentleman. 
"She  is  making  a  stern  chase  of  him,  like  a  pirate 
after  a  merchantman.  When  she  loses  sight  of  him 
she  '11  be  in  a  fine  state  at  not  knowing  who  he  is, 
whether  a  marquis  or  a  bourgeois.  Ah !  those  young 
heads,  those  young  heads!  they  ought  always  to  have 
an  old  wig  like  me  at  their  elbow  —  " 

Suddenly  he  set  spurs  to  his  horse  to  startle  that  of 
his  niece,  and  passed  so  rapidly  between  fimilie  and 
the  stranger  that  he  forced  the  latter  to  jump  back 
upon  the  grass  that  bordered  the  road.  Stopping  his 
horse,  the  count  cried  out :  — 

"Couldn't  you  get  out  of  the  way?" 

"Ah,  pardon  me,"  replied  the  stranger.  "I  waa 
not  aware  it  was  my  place  to  make  excuses  for  your 
nearly  knocking  me  down." 

"Enough  of  that,  friend!"  returned  the  old  sailor, 
gruflfly,  in  a  tone  of  voice  which  was  meant  to  be 
insulting. 

At  the  same  time  the  count  raised  his  whip  as  if  to 
strike  his  horse,  but  he  let  the  end  of  it  touch  the 
shoulder  of  the  young  man  as  he  said :  — 

"The  liberals  always  reason,  and  the  man  who  rea- 
sons ought  to  be  wise." 

The  young  man  jumped  into  the  road  on  hearing  the 
words,  and  said,  in  an  angry  voice;  — 


The  Rural  Ball  477 

** Monsieur,  I  can  hardly  believe,  seeing  your  white 
hair,  that  you  still  amuse  yourself  by  seekiug 
duels  —  " 

"White  hair!"  cried  the  sailor,  interrupting  him; 
"you  lie  in  your  throat;  it  is  only  gray." 

A  dispute  thus  begun  became,  in  a  few  seconds,  so 
hot  that  the  young  adversary  forgot  the  tone  of  moder- 
ation he  tried  to  use.  At  this  moment  Emilie  rode 
anxiously  back  to  them,  and  the  count  gave  his  name 
hurriedly  to  the  young  man,  telling  him  to  say  noth- 
ing more  in  presence  of  the  lady  who  was  intrusted 
to  his  care.  The  young  stranger  could  not  help  smil- 
ing, but  he  gave  his  card  to  the  old  gentleman,  re- 
marking that  he  lived  in  a  country-house  at  Chevreuse, 
after  which  he  disappeared  rapidly. 

"You  came  near  killing  that  poor  fellow,  niece," 
said  the  count,  riding  up  to  ifimilie.  "Why  don't  you 
hold  your  horse  in  hand  ?  You  left  me  to  compromise 
my  dignity  in  order  to  cover  your  folly;  whereas  if 
you  had  stayed  on  the  spot  one  of  your  looks  or  civil 
words,  which  you  can  say  prettily  enough  when  you 
don't  want  to  be  impertinent,  would  have  mended 
matters  even  if  you  had  broken  his  arm." 

"My  dear  uncle,  it  was  your  horse,  not  mine,  that 
caused  the  accident.  I  really  think  you  ought  to  give 
up  riding;  you  are  not  half  so  good  a  horseman  as 
you  were  last  year.  But  instead  of  talking  about 
trifles  —  " 

"Trifles!  the  devil!  Do  you  call  it  a  trifle  to  be 
impertinent  to  your  uncle?" 

"  —  we  had  much  better  follow  that  young  man  and 
see  if  he  is  hurt.     He  is  limping,  uncle,  see  1 " 


478  The  Rural  Ball 

"No,  he  is  runniDg.     I  gave  him  a  good  lesson." 

"Ah!  uncle,  that  was  just  like  you." 

"Stop,  niece,"  said  the  count,  catching  Emilie's 
horse  by  the  bridle.  "I  don't  see  the  necessity  of 
running  after  some  shopkeeper,  who  may  think  him- 
self only  too  happy  to  be  run  down  by  a  pretty  young 
girl  and  the  commander  of  the  '  Belle-Poule.'  " 

"Why  do  you  think  he  is  a  shopkeeper,  uncle?  I 
think,  on  the  contrary,  that  his  manners  are  very 
distinguished." 

"Everybody  has  manners  in  these  days." 

"Everybody  has  not  the  air  and  style  of  social  life; 
I  *11  lay  a  wager  with  you  that  that  young  man  is 
noble." 

"You  didn't  have  time  to  examine  him." 

"But  it  is  n't  the  first  time  I  have  seen  him." 

"Ha,  ha! "  laughed  her  uncle;  "and  it  is  n't  the  first 
time  you  have  hunted  for  him,  either." 

£milie  colored,  and  her  uncle  amused  himself  by 
leaving  her  a  while  embarrassed ;  then  he  said :  — 

"Emilie,  you  know  I  love  you  as  my  own  child, 
because  you  are  the  only  one  of  the  family  who  keeps 
the  legitimate  pride  of  high  birth.  Ah!  my  little 
niece,  who  'd  have  thought  good  principles  would  have 
become  so  rare  ?  Well,  I  wish  to  be  your  confidant. 
My  dear  little  girl,  I  see  you  are  not  indifferent  to 
that  young  gentleman.  You  know  what  that  means. 
Therefore,  let  me  help  you.  Let  us  both  keep  the 
secret,  and  I  '11  promise  to  introduce  him  to  you  in 
a  salon." 

"When,  uncle?" 

"To-morrow." 


The  Rural  Ball.  479 

"But,  my  dear  uncle,  you  won't  bind  me  to  any- 
thing?" 

"To  nothing  at  all;  you  can  bombard  him,  set  fire 
to  him,  make  a  wreck  of  him  if  you  please.  And  he 
won't  be  the  first,  either." 

"How  kind  you  are,  uncle." 

As  soon  as  the  count  got  home  he  put  on  his  spec- 
tacles, pulled  the  card  from  his  pocket,  and  read  the 
name,  "Maximilien  Longueville,  rue  du  Sentier." 

"You  needn't  feel  uneasy,"  he  said  later  to  Emilie; 
"you  can  harpoon  him  in  safety;  he  belongs  to  one 
of  the  great  historical  families,  and  if  he  isn't  peer  of 
France  now  he  can  certainly  become  so." 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"That 's  my  secret." 

"Do  you  know  his  name?" 

The  count  nodded  his  gray  head,  which  was  some- 
thing like  an  old  oak  stump,  around  which  a  few 
autumn  leaves  were  clinging.  At  that  nod  his  niece 
ran  to  him  to  try  the  ever  fresh  effect  of  her  coquet- 
ries. Learned  in  the  art  of  cajoling  the  old  sailor, 
she  coaxed  him  like  a  child  with  the  tenderest  words. 
She  even  went  so  far  as  to  kiss  him,  in  order  to  obtain 
the  important  secret.  But  the  old  man,  who  passed 
his  life  in  making  his  niece  play  such  scenes,  let  her 
entreat  and  pet  him  for  a  long  time.  Presently  she 
grew  angry  and  sulked ;  then,  under  the  spur  of  curi- 
osity, she  coaxed  again.  The  diplomatic  mariner  first 
obtained  her  solemn  promise  to  behave  with  more 
discretion,  to  be  more  gentle,  less  self-willed,  to  spend 
less  money,  and,  above  all,  to  tell  him  everything. 
This  treaty  being  concluded  and  signed  by  a  kiss 


480  The  Rural  Ball. 

which  he  deposited  on  ifimilie's  white  forehead,  he 
seated  her  on  his  knee,  placed  the  card  before  her  eyes, 
with  his  two  thumbs  covering  the  print,  and  let  her 
make  out,  letter  by  letter,  the  name  of  Longueville, 
obstinately  refusing  to  show  her  more. 

This  event  made  the  secret  sentiments  of  Made- 
moiselle de  Fontaine  even  more  intense,  and  she  spent 
the  greater  part  of  the  night  in  picturing  to  her  mind's 
eye  the  brilliant  dreams  with  which  she  fed  her  hopes. 
Thanks  to  chance,  so  often  invoked,  Emilie  now  saw 
something  besides  a  mere  chimera  in  her  visions  of 
conjugal  life.  Like  all  young  girls,  who  are  ignorant 
of  the  risks  of  love  and  marriage,  she  was  captivated 
by  the  deceitful  externals  of  the  two  conditions.  In 
other  words,  her  sentiments  were  like  other  caprices 
of  early  youth,  sweet  but  cruel  errors  which  exercise  a 
fatal  influence  on  the  existence  of  girls  who  are  inex- 
perienced enough  to  take  upon  their  own  shoulders  the 
responsibility  of  their  future  happiness. 

The  next  morning,  before  ^fimilie  was  awake,  her 
uncle  had  ridden  to  Chevreuse.  Finding  in  the  court- 
yard of  an  elegant  country-house  the  young  man  he 
had  so  wantonly  insulted  the  night  before,  he  went  up 
to  him  with  the  affectionate  politeness  of  the  old  men 
of  the  olden  time. 

*'My  dear  monsieur,"  he  said,  "could  any  one 
believe  that  I  should,  at  the  age  of  sixty-three,  get  up 
a  quarrel  with  the  son  of  one  of  my  oldest  friends  ?  I 
am  a  vice-admiral,  monsieur;  which  is  proof  enough 
that  I  think  no  more  of  fighting  a  duel  than  of  smok- 
ing a  cigar.  In  my  day,  young  fellows  could  n't  be 
friends  till  they  had  seen  the  color  of  each  other's 


The  Rural  Ball  481 

blood.  But,  ventre-de-biche  /  I  had,  you  must  know, 
taken  a  trifle  too  much  grog  aboard,  and  I  ran  foul  of 
you.  Shake  hands!  I 'd  rather  receive  a  hundred  re- 
buffs from  a  Longueville  than  give  the  slightest  pain 
to  any  of  the  family." 

Though  at  first  the  young  man  was  inclined  to  be 
cold  to  the  Comte  de  Kergarouet,  it  was  impossible  to 
hold  out  long  against  his  hearty  manner,  and  he 
allowed  himself  to  be  shaken  by  the  hand. 

"You  are  going  out,"  said  the  count;  "don't  let  me 
detain  you.  But,  unless  you  have  other  plans,  come 
and  dine  with  me  to-day  at  the  Pavilion  Planat.  My 
nephew,  the  Comte  de  Fontaine,  is  a  man  you  ought 
to  know.  And,  besides,  morbleuf  I  want  to  repair 
my  rudeness  by  presenting  you  to  four  or  five  of  the 
prettiest  women  of  Paris.  Ha,  ha !  young  man,  your 
brow  unclouds !  Well,  I  like  young  people,  and  I  want 
to  see  them  happy.  Their  happiness  reminds  me  of 
those  blessed  days  of  youth  when  adventures  were 
never  lacking.  Gay!  oh,  we  were  gay  then,  I  can 
tell  you.  Nowadays,  you  reason,  you  worry  about 
all  sorts  of  things,  as  if  there  had  never  been  a  fif- 
teenth or  sixteenth  century.'* 

"But,  monsieur,  are  not  we  right  to  do  so?  The 
sixteenth  century  gave  Europe  religious  liberty  only, 
whereas  the  nineteenth  will  give  her  poli  — 

"Stop,  stop,  don't  talk  politics.  I'm  an  old  fogy 
of  an  ultra.  But  for  all  that,  I  don't  prevent  young 
fellows  from  being  revolutionists,  provided  they  allow 
the  king  to  disperse  their  meetings." 

Riding  on  together  a  little  way,  the  count  and  his 
companion  were  soon  in  the  heart  of  the  woods.     The 

31 


482  '  The  Bural  Ball, 

old  sailor  selected  a  slim  young  birch,  stopped  his 
horse,  pulled  out  a  pistol,  and  sent  a  ball  through  its 
stem  at  forty  paces. 

*'You  see,  my  dear  fellow,  that  I  have  no  reason  to 
fear  a  duel,"  he  remarked,  with  comic  gravity,  as  he 
looked  at  Monsieur  Longueville. 

"Nor  I,  either,"  said  the  young  man,  pulling  out  his 
own  pistol.  Aiming  for  the  count's  hole  he  put  his 
ball  close  beside  it. 

"That 's  what  I  call  a  well  brought-up  young  man," 
cried  the  count,  with  enthusiasm. 

During  this  ride  with  the  man  he  already  regarded 
as  his  nephew,  he  found  several  opportunities  to 
make  inquiries  as  to  those  trifling  accomplishments 
the  possession  of  which  constituted,  according  to  his 
peculiar  code,  a  finished  gentleman. 

"Have  you  any  debts?"  he  asked,  finally,  after  a 
variety  of  other  questions. 

"No,  monsieur." 

"What!  you  pay  for  what  you  buy!  " 

"Punctually,  monsieur;  otherwise  we  should  lose 
our  credit  and  standing." 

"But  of  course  you  have  a  mistress?  Ah!  you  blush, 
young  man.  How  times  have  changed,  to  be  sure! 
With  these  ideas  of  legality,  Kantism,  liberty,  youth 
is  spoiled.  You  have  neither  Guimard,  nor  Duthe,  nor 
creditors,  and  you  don't  know  heraldry !  Why,  my  dear 
young  friend,  you  are  not  hrought-itp  at  all!  Let  me 
tell  you  that  he  who  does  n't  commit  his  follies  in  the 
spring  is  certain  to  commit  them  in  winter.  If  I 
have  eighty  thousand  francs  a  year  at  seventy  it  is 
because  I  ran  through  my  capital  at  thirty —    Oh! 


The  Bural  Ball  483 

with  my  wife,  honorably.  Nevertheless  your  imper- 
fections will  not  prevent  me  from  presenting  you  at 
the  Pavilion  Planat.  Remember  that  you  have  prom- 
ised to  come,  and  I  shall  expect  you." 

"What  an  odd  little  man!"  thought  Longueville; 
"he  is  lively  and  robust,  but  —  though  he  tries  to 
seem  kindly,  I  shall  not  trust  him." 

The  next  day,  about  four  o'clock,  as  the  family 
party  were  scattered  about  in  the  salons  and  billiard' 
room  at  Planat,  a  servant  announced :  — 

"Monsieur  de  Longueville." 

Having  already  heard  of  him  from  the  Comte  de 
Kergarouet,  the  whole  company,  even  to  a  billiard- 
player  who  missed  his  stroke,  gathered  to  see  the  new- 
comer, as  much  to  watch  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine's 
face  as  to  judge  of  the  phoenix  who  had  won  the  day 
in  defiance  of  so  many  rivals.  Manners  that  were  full 
of  ease,  courteous  politeness,  a  style  of  dress  both 
elegant  and  simple,  and  a  voice  which  vibrated  to  the 
heart  of  all  hearers  at  once  obtained  for  Monsieur 
Longueville  the  good-will  of  the  whole  family.  He 
did  not  seem  unused  to  the  luxury  now  about  him. 
Though  his  conversation  was  that  of  a  man  of  the 
world,  it  was  easy  to  see  that  he  had  received  a  bril- 
liant education,  and  that  his  knowledge  was  solid  and 
also  extensive.  He  used,  for  instance,  the  proper 
technical  word  in  a  slight  discussion  which  the  count 
started  on  naval  constructions,  which  led  one  of  the 
women  present  to  remark  that  he  must  have  been 
educated  at  the  i^cole  Polytechnique. 

"I  agree  with  you,  madame,"  he  replied,  "that  it  is 
an  honor  to  have  been  educated  there." 


484  The  Rural  Ball, 

In  spite  of  much  urging,  he  declined  politely,  but 
firmly,  the  urgent  invitation  of  the  family  that  he 
should  stay  to  dinner;  and  he  put  an  end  to  all  remarks 
from  the  ladies  by  saying  that  he  was  the  Hippocrates 
of  a  young  sister  whose  delicate  health  required  inces- 
sant watching. 

"Monsieur  is  perhaps  a  physician?"  said  one  of 
Emilie's  sisters-in-law,  rather  maliciously. 

"No,  monsieur  was  educated  at  the  ^^cole  Poly  tech- 
nique," interposed  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  whose 
face  had  brightened  with  the  richest  tints  on  hearing 
that  the  lady  she  had  seen  at  the  ball  was  Monsieur 
Longueville's  sister. 

"But,  my  dear  sister,  a  man  can  be  educated  at  the 
£cole  Poly  technique  and  yet  be  a  physician.  Isn't 
that  so,  monsieur?" 

"Madame,  the  two  things  are  not  incompatible,"  re- 
plied the  young  man. 

All  eyes  rested  on  Emilie,  who  looked  with  a  sort  of 
uneasy  curiosity  at  the  attractive  stranger.  She 
breathed  more  freely  when  he  added,  with  a  smile,  — 

"I  have  not  the  honor  of  being  a  physician, 
madame,  and  I  have  even  declined  an  opportunity  to 
enter  the  government  service,  in  order  to  maintain  my 
independence." 

"And  you  did  right,"  said  the  count.  "But  how 
can  you  call  it  an  honor  to  be  a  doctor?  Ah!  my 
young  friend,  for  a  man  like  you  — " 

"Monsieur  le  comte,  I  feel  infinite  respect  for  all 
professions  that  are  useful." 

"I'll  agree  to  that;  you  respect  professions,  I  sus- 
pect, as  other  young  men  respect  dowagers." 


Tlie  Bural  Ball  485 

Monsieur  Longueville*8  visit  was  neither  too  long 
nor  too  short.  He  withdrew  at  the  moment  when  he 
had  pleased  every  one  and  when  the  curiosity  of  all 
was  fairly  roused. 

"That's  a  sly  fellow,"  said  the  count,  returning  to 
the  salon,  after  seeing  the  young  man  to  the  door. 

Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  who  alone  was  in  the 
secret  of  this  visit,  had  made  a  somewhat  choice  toi- 
let to  attract  the  eyes  of  the  young  man ;  but  she  had 
the  small  annoyance  of  perceiving  that  he  paid  her  less 
attention  than  she  thought  her  due.  The  family  were 
a  good  deal  surprised  at  the  silence  into  which  she 
retired.  Usually  ifemilie  displayed  her  coquettish 
charms,  her  clever  chatter,  and  the  inexhaustible  elo- 
quence of  her  glances  and  her  attitudes  on  each  new- 
comer. Whether  it  was  that  the  musical  voice  of  the 
young  man  and  the  attraction  of  his  manners  had 
seriously  charmed  her,  and  that  this  real  sentiment  had 
given  her  a  change  of  heart,  it  is  certain  that  her 
behavior  lost  all  affectation.  Becoming  simple  and 
natural  she  was  all  the  more  beautiful.  Some  of  her 
sisters,  and  an  old  lady,  a  friend  of  the  family,  saw  a 
refinement  of  coquetry  in  this  conduct.  They  sup- 
posed that  finding  a  young  man  worthy  of  her  she 
intended  to  show  him  slowly  her  charms,  and  then  to 
dazzle  him  suddenly  when  her  mind  was  made  up. 

Every  member  of  the  family  was  curious  to  know 
what  the  capricious  girl  thought  of  the  stranger;  but 
when,  during  dinner,  they  each  took  occasion  to  endow 
Monsieur  Longueville  with  some  fresh  merit.  Made- 
moiselle de  Fontaine  was  mute  until  a  slight  sarcasm 
from  her  uncle  roused  her  suddenly  from  her  apathy; 


486  The  Rural  Ball. 

she  then  said,  in  a  pointed  manner,  that  such  celestial 
perfections  must  cover  some  great  defect,  and  that 
for  her  part  she  should  be  careful  not  to  judge  of  so 
clever  a  man  at  first  sight. 

"Those  who  please  every  one  please  no  one  in  par- 
ticular,'* she  added;  "and  the  worst  of  all  defects  is 
to  have  none." 

Like  all  young  girls  who  fall  in  love,  ilmilie  fondly 
hoped  to  hide  her  feelings  in  her  heart  by  misleading 
the  Argus  eyes  that  surrounded  her;  but  at  the  end  of 
a  fortnight  there  was  not  a  single  member  of  this 
numerous  family  who  was  not  initiated  into  her  secret. 

At  Monsieur  Longueville's  third  visit  £milie  felt 
that  she  attracted  him.  This  discovery  gave  her  such 
intoxicating  pleasure  that  she  felt  surprised  at  herself 
when  she  reflected  on  it.  There  was  something  humili- 
ating to  her  pride  in  it.  Accustomed  to  feel  herself 
the  centre  of  the  world  she  lived  in,  she  was  now 
obliged  to  recognize  a  power  which  controlled  her  in 
spite  of  herself.  She  tried  to  rebel  against  it,  but 
she  was  wholly  unable  to  drive  from  her  heart  the 
seductive  image  of  the  young  man.  Then  came 
uneasiness.  Two  characteristics  of  Monsieur  Longue- 
ville  were  very  unwelcome,  both  to  the  general  curi- 
osity and  that  of  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  in  partic- 
ular; namely,  his  discretion  and  his  modesty.  He 
never  spoke  of  himself,  or  of  his  family,  or  his  occu- 
pations. In  spite  of  the  traps  which  fimilie  repeat- 
edly laid  for  him  in  conversation,  he  managed  to  evade 
them  all  with  the  cleverness  of  a  diplomatist  who 
means  to  keep  his  secret.  If  she  talked  of  painting, 
Monsieur  Longueville  replied  as  a  connoisseur.     If 


Tie  Rural  Ball,  487 

she  tried  music,  the  young  man  showed,  without 
conceit,  that  he  could  play  the  piano  fairly  well.  One 
evening  he  delighted  the  company  by  blending  his 
delightful  voice  with  that  of  l&milie  in  one  of  Cima- 
rosa*s  fine  duets.  But  if  any  one  attempted  to  dis- 
cover whether  he  were  an  artist  of  any  kind,  he  joked 
about  his  accomplishments  with  so  much  grace  that 
he  left  these  women,  practised  as  they  were  in  the  art 
of  divining  such  secrets,  unable  to  discover  the  social 
sphere  to  which  he  belonged.  No  matter  with  what 
vigor  the  old  admiral  flung  a  grapnel  to  the  vessel, 
Longueville  managed  to  slip  by  it  with  a  suppleness 
which  preserved  the  charm  of  mystery;  and  it  was  all 
the  more  easy  for  him  to  keep  his  incognito  at  the 
Pavilion  Planat,  because  the  curiosity  he  there  aroused 
never  exceeded  the  limits  of  politeness. 

Emilie,  tortured  by  this  reserve,  fancied  she  might 
get  more  from  the  sister  than  from  the  brother,  and 
she  now  attempted,  with  the  help  of  her  uncle,  to 
bring  that  hitherto  mute  personage,  Mademoiselle 
Clara  Longueville,  on  the  scene.  The  society  at  the 
Pavilion  expressed  an  extreme  desire  to  know  so 
amiable  a  young  lady  and  to  afford  her  some  amuse- 
ment. An  informal  ball  was  proposed  and  accepted, 
and  the  ladies  felt  certain  of  getting  the  truth  from  a 
girl  of  sixteen. 

In  spite  of  these  little  clouds  of  doubt,  a  vivid  light 
had  entered  the  soul  of  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine, 
who  found  a  new  and  delightful  charm  in  life  when 
connected  with  another  being  besides  herself.  She 
began  to  conceive  the  true  nature  of  social  relations. 
Whether  happiness  makes  better  beings  of  us,   or 


488  TJie  Rural  Ball. 

whether  her  mind  was  too  occupied  to  tease  and  har- 
ass others,  it  is  certain  that  she  became  less  caustic, 
gentler  and  more  indulgent.  This  change  in  her  char- 
acter delighted  the  astonished  family.  Perhaps,  after 
all,  her  selfishness  was  to  turn  into  love.  Merely  to 
expect  the  arrival  of  her  reserved  adorer  was  joy. 
Though  a  single  word  of  passion  had  never  passed 
between  them  she  knew  herself  loved.  With  what 
art  she  now  enabled  her  unknown  lover  to  display  his 
accomplishments  and  the  treasures  of  an  education  that 
was  evidently  varied.  Conscious  that  she  herself  was 
being  carefully  observed,  she  felt  her  defects  and  tried 
to  conquer  those  which  her  training  had  so  fatally 
encouraged.  It  was  indeed  a  first  homage  paid  to 
love,  and  a  bitter  reproach  which  her  awakened  heart 
made  to  itself.  The  result  was  that,  wanting  to  please, 
she  fascinated ;  she  loved,  and  was  idolized. 

Her  family,  knowing  how  amply  her  pride  protected 
her,  allowed  her  enough  liberty  to  enjoy  those  little 
youthful  happinesses  which  give  such  charm  and  such 
vigor  to  young  love.  More  than  once  the  young  man 
and  Emilie  walked  alone  about  the  shrubbery  of  the 
park,  where  nature  was  decked  like  beauty  for  a  ball. 
More  than  once  they  held  those  vague  and  aimless  con- 
vei-sations  the  emptiest  words  of  which  conceal  the 
deepest  sentiments.  Together  they  admired  the 
setting  sun  and  its  glowing  colors.  They  gathered 
daisies  to  pluck  the  leaves ;  they  sang  the  passionate 
duets  of  Pergolesi  and  Rossini,  using  those  notes  as 
faithful  interpreters  to  express  their  secret  feelings. 


The  Rural  Ball.  489 


m. 

IN  WHICH   THE   WORST   COMES   TO   THE   WORST. 

The  day  of  the  ball  arrived.  Clara  Longueville 
and  her  brother,  whom  the  footmen  persisted  in  deco- 
rating with  the  particle,  were  the  heroes  of  it.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  life  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  saw 
the  triumph  of  another  girl  with  pleasure.  She  lav- 
ished, in  all  sincerity,  upon  Clara,  those  pretty  caresses 
and  attentions  which  women  often  show  to  each  other 
to  excite  the  jealousy  of  men,  £milie  had  an  object 
of  her  own,  however;  she  wanted  to  obtain  the  secret. 
But  Mademoiselle  Longueville  proved  to  have  even 
more  discretion  and  more  cleverness  than  her  brother, 
for  she  did  not  even  seem  to  be  reserved, —  keeping 
the  conversation  away  from  personal  interests,  but 
giving  it  so  great  a  charm  on  other  subjects  that 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  felt  a  sort  of  envy,  and 
called  her  "the  siren."  Though  flmilie's  intention 
was  to  question  Clara,  it  was  Clara  who  questioned 
Emilie;  she  wanted  to  judge  the  girl,  and  the  girl 
judged  her;  she  was  even  provoked  with  herself  for 
letting  her  real  self  appear  in  certain  answers  cleverly 
drawn  out  of  her  by  Clara,  whose  modest  and  inno- 
cent air  precluded  all  suspicion  of  malice.  At  one 
moment  Emilie  seemed  really  angry  at  having  made  an 
attack  upon  plebeians,  which  Clara  herself  had 
provoked. 


490  The  Rural  Ball. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  the  charming  girl,  "I  have 
heard  so  much  of  you  from  Maximilien  that  I  have 
longed  to  know  you;  and  to  know  you  must  be,  I 
think,  to  love  you." 

"Dear  Clara,  I  was  afraid  I  displeased  you  just  now, 
in  speaking  as  I  did  of  those  who  are  not  noble." 

*'0h,  no;  don't  be  troubled.  In  these  days  such 
discussions  have  no  point;  and  as  forme,  I  am  out- 
side of  that  question." 

This  answer  gave  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  the 
utmost  satisfaction,  for  she  interpreted  it  as  people 
interpret  oracles,  to  suit  themselves.  She  looked  at 
Maximilien,  whose  elegance  surpassed  even  that  of 
her  imaginary  type,  and  her  soul  was  filled  with  joy 
at  the  knowledge  at  last  obtained  that  he  was  noble. 
Never  did  the  two  lovers  understand  each  other  so  well 
as  at  this  moment ;  more  than  once  their  hands  trem- 
bled as  they  met  in  the  figures  of  the  dance. 

Autumn  came  in  the  midst  of  fetes  and  rural  pleas- 
ures, during  which  the  charming  couple  let  themselves 
float  upon  the  current  of  the  sweetest  of  all  sentiments, 
strengthening  that  sentiment  in  a  thousand  little  ways 
which  every  one  can  imagine,  for  all  loves  resemble 
one  another  on  certain  points.  Also  they  studied  each 
other's  characters,  as  much  as  persons  can  study  each 
other  when  they  love. 

"  Well,  never  did  a  fancy  turn  into  a  love-match  so 
rapidly,"  said  the  old  uncle,  who  watched  the  proceed- 
ings of  the  young  pair  as  a  naturalist  watches  an  insect 
through  his  microscope. 

The  words  alarmed  Monsieur  and  Madame  de  Fon- 
taine.    The  old  Vendean  was  not  as  indifferent  to  his 


The  Rural  Ball  491 

daughter's  marriage  as  he  had  lately  professed  to  be. 
He  went  to  Paris  to  make  inquiries,  and  obtained  no 
results.  Uneasy  at  such  evident  mystery,  and  before 
he  could  hear  the  result  of  certain  inquiries  he  had  set 
on  foot  in  Paris,  he  thought  it  his  duty  to  warn  his 
daughter  to  behave  with  more  caution.  This  paternal 
advice  was  received  with  a  show  of  obedience  that  was 
evidently  ironical. 

"But  at  least,  my  dear  6milie,  if  you  love  him  don't 
let  him  see  it." 

"  Papa,  it  is  true  that  I  love  him,  but  I  shall  wait 
for  your  permission  to  tell  him  so." 

"But  reflect,  ^milie,  that  you  don't  know  anything 
as  yet  about  his  family  or  his  station." 

"I  don't  mind  that.  But,  papa,  you  wished  to  see 
me  married;  you  gave  me  liberty  to  choose,  and  I 
have  chosen  —  what  more  can  you  want?  " 

"I  want  to  know,  my  dear,  if  the  man  you  have 
chosen  is  the  son  of  a  peer  of  France,"  replied  her 
father,  sarcastically. 

fimilie  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  she  raised 
her  head,  looked  at  her  father,  and  said,  with  some 
anxiety :  — 

"  Who  are  the  Longuevilles  ?  " 

"The  family  became  extinct  in  the  person  of  the  old 
Due  de  Rostein-Limbourg,  who  perished  on  the 
scaffold  in  1793.  He  was  the  last  scion  of  the  last 
youngest  branch." 

"But,  papa,  there  are  several  good  houses  descended 
from  bastards.  The  history  of  France  swarms  with 
princes  who  bear  the  bar  sinister." 

"Your  ideas  seemed  to  have  changed,"  said  the  old 
noble,  smiling. 


492  The  Rural  Ball. 

The  next  day  was  the  last  which  the  Fontaine  family 
were  to  spend  at  Planat.  fimilie,  whom  the  advice  of 
her  father  had  a  good  deal  disquieted,  impatiently 
awaited  the  hour  of  young  Longueville's  usual  visit, 
being  determined  to  obtain  some  definite  explanation 
from  him.  She  went  out  alone  after  dinner,  and 
made  her  way  to  a  grove  in  the  park  where  she  knew 
her  lover  would  be  sure  to  search  for  her.  As  she 
went  along,  she  thought  over  the  best  means  of  obtain- 
ing, without  committing  herself,  a  secret  so  impor- 
tant; a  difl3cult  thing  to  do.  Until  now,  no  direct 
avowal  had  sanctioned  the  feelings  which  united  her 
to  this  man.  She  had,  like  Maximilien,  enjoyed  the 
delights  of  unspoken  love,  but  proud  as  they  were,  it 
seemed  as  though  both  shrank  from  acknowledging 
their  feelings. 

Maximilien  Longueville,  in  whom  Clara  had  inspired 
certain  well-founded  suspicions  on  Emilie's  nature, 
felt  himself  alternately  driven  onward  by  the  violence 
of  his  passion,  and  restrained  by  the  desire  to  know 
and  test  a  woman  to  whom  he  was  about  to  confide  the 
happiness  of  his  life.  His  love  did  not  prevent  him 
from  seeing  in  Emilie  the  faults  and  prejudices  which 
injured  her  youthful  character ;  but  he  desired  to  know 
whether  he  was  truly  loved  by  her  in  spite  of  them, 
before  speaking  to  her;  he  would  not  risk  the  fate  of 
either  his  love  or  his  life.  He  therefore  maintained 
an  outward  silence,  which  his  looks  and  attitudes  and 
slightest  actions  contradicted. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  pride  natural  to  a  young  girl, 
Increased  in  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  by  the  foolish 
vanity  of  her  birth  and  beauty,  prevented  her  from 


The  Rural  Ball,  493 

meeting  half-way  the  declaration  which  her  growing 
passion  sometimes  urged  her  to  bring  about.  Thus 
these  lovers  had  instinctively  underatood  their  mut- 
ual situation  without  explaining  their  secret  motives. 
There  are  moments  in  life  when  the  vague  gives  pleas* 
ure  to  young  souls. 

Seated  on  a  rustic  bench,  6milie  now  thought  over 
the  events  of  these  thi'ee  enchanting  months.  Her 
father's  doubts  were  the  last  fears  that  could  touch 
her,  and  even  these  she  set  aside  by  arguments  which 
to  an  inexperienced  girl  seemed  triumphant.  In  the 
first  place,  she  convinced  herself  that  it  was  impossible 
she  should  be  deceived.  During  the  whole  summer 
she  had  never  detected  in  Maximilien  a  look,  or  word 
or  gesture  which  indicated  a  vulgar  origin  or  occupa- 
tion; more  than  that,  his  manner  of  discussing  topics 
proved  that  he  was  a  man  whose  mind  was  occupied 
with  the  highest  interests  of  the  nation.  "Besides," 
she  thought  to  herself,  "a  clerk,  a  banker,  or  a  mer- 
chant would  not  have  leisure  to  spend  a  whole  summer 
in  making  love  to  me  in  the  fields  and  woods;  he 
spends  his  time  as  idly  as  a  noble  whose  life  is  free  of 
care."  Then  she  abandoned  herself  to  a  course  of 
meditation  far  more  interesting  to  her  than  these  pre- 
liminary thoughts,  and  was  thus  engaged  when  a  slight 
rustling  of  the  foliage  let  her  know  that  Maximilien 
was  looking  at  her,  no  doubt  with  admiration. 

"Don't  you  know  that  it  is  very  wrong  to  come  sud- 
denly upon  girls  in  that  way?"  she  said,  smiling. 

"Above  all  when  they  are  thinking  about  their 
secrets,"  replied  Maximilien,  slyly. 

"Why  should  n't  I  have  secrets  ?  "  she  asked.  "You 
have  plenty  of  your  own." 


494  The  Rural  Bad. 

"Were  you  really  thinking  of  your  secrets?"  he 
said,  laughing. 

"No,  I  was  thinking  of  yours.  I  know  all  about 
mine." 

"But,"  said  the  young  man,  gently  taking  the  girl's 
arm  and  placing  it  in  his,  "perhaps  my  secrets  are 
yours,  and  your  secrets  mine." 

After  walking  a  few  steps  they  reached  a  grove  of 
trees  which  the  setting  sun  was  wrapping  in  a  mist, 
as  it  were,  of  reds  and  browns.  This  natural  magic 
seemed  to  give  solemnity  to  the  moment.  The 
eyes  of  the  lovers  had  never  before  told  each  other  so 
many  things  that  their  lips  dared  not  say.  In  the 
grasp  of  this  sweet  intoxication  they  forgot  the  small 
conventions  of  pride  and  the  cold  calculations  of  their 
mutual  distrust.  At  first  they  could  only  express  their 
emotions  by  clasping  hands,  and  so  interpreting 
their  happy  thoughts. 

"Monsieur,  I  have  a  question  to  ask  you,"  said 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  after  a  long  silence,  in  a 
trembling  voice,  as  they  slowly  paced  onward.  ^'  But 
remember,  I  entreat  you,  that  it  is,  as  it  were,  forced 
upon  me  by  the  situation  in  which  I  stand  with  my 
family." 

A  pause  that  was  terrifying  to  !^milie  followed  these 
words  which  she  almost  stammered.  During  the 
moment  that  this  silence  lasted  the  girl,  hitherto  so 
proud,  dared  not  meet  the  burning  glance  of  the  man 
she  loved,  for  she  was  conscious  in  her  heart  of  the 
baseness  of  the  words  she  added :  — 

"Are  you  noble?" 

When  they  had  left  her  lips  she  wished  herself  at 
the  bottom  of  a  lake. 


The  Rural  Ball.  495 

"Mademoiselle,"  replied  Longueville,  gravely,  his 
face  assuming  a  sort  of  stern  dignity,  "I  will  answer 
that  question  without  evasion  when  you  have  answered 
with  sincerity  the  one  I  now  put  to  you." 

He  dropped  the  arm  of  the  young  girl,  who  suddenly 
felt  alone  in  the  world,  and  said,  "Why  do  you 
question  me  about  my  birth?"  She  was  motionless, 
cold,  and  silent.  "Mademoiselle,"  he  went  on,  "let 
us  go  no  farther  if  we  do  not  comprehend  each  other. 
I  love  you,"  he  added,  in  a  deep  and  tender  tone. 
"Well,  then!"  he  continued,  on  hearing  the  exclama- 
tion of  joy  which  the  girl  could  not  restrain,  "why 
ask  me  if  I  am  noble  ?  " 

"Could  he  speak  thus  if  he  were  not,"  cried  an  in- 
ward voice  which  ilmilie  believed  to  have  come  from 
the  depths  of  her  heart.  She  raised  her  head  grace- 
fully, seemed  to  gather  a  new  life  in  the  look  the 
young  man  gave  her,  and  held  out  her  arm  to  him  as 
though  to  make  a  new  alliance. 

"You  must  think  I  care  much  for  worldly  dignities," 
she  said. 

"I  have  no  titles  to  offer  to  my  wife,"  he  replied,  half 
in  jest  and  half  in  earnest.  "But  if  I  choose  her  in 
the  highest  rank  and  among  those  who  are  accustomed 
to  luxury  and  the  pleasures  of  opulence,  I  know  to  what 
my  choice  obliges  me.  Love  gives  all,"  he  added, 
gayly,  "but  to  lovers  only.  Married  people  want 
more  than  the  heavens  above  them  and  the  velvet  of 
the  turf  at  their  feet." 

"He  is  rich,"  thought  she.  "As  for  titles,  perhaps 
he  wants  to  test  me.  They  have  probably  told  him  I 
was  fanatical  about  nobility,  and  would  only  marry  a 


496  The  Rural  Ball 

peer  of  France.  My  cats  of  sisters  may  have  played 
me  just  such  a  trick.  I  assure  you,  monsieur,"  she 
said  aloud,  "that  although  I  have  had  exacting  ideas 
as  to  life  and  society,  I  now,"  glancing  at  him  in  a 
manner  to  turn  his  head,  **know  where  a  woman 
should  look  for  her  real  happiness." 

"I  trust  that  you  speak  sincerely,"  he  answered,  with 
gentle  gravity.  *'Next  winter,  my  dear  l^milie,  in 
less  than  two  months,  perhaps,  I  shall  be  able  to  offer 
you  the  enjoyments  of  wealth.  "What  this  means  is 
a  secret  I  am  compelled  to  keep  for  the  present.  On 
its  success  depends  my  happiness;  I  dare  not  say 
ours  —  " 

"Oh!  say  it,  say  it!"  she  exclaimed. 

With  many  tender  thoughts  and  words  they  slowly 
returned  to  the  house  and  joined  the  company  in  the 
salon.  Never  had  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  seen  her 
lover  so  lovable,  so  pleasing;  his  slim  form,  his 
engaging  manners  seemed  to  her  more  charming  than 
ever.  They  sang  together  in  Italian,  with  such  expres- 
sion that  the  company  applauded  enthusiastically. 
Their  final  adieu  was  made  in  a  formal  tone  which 
covered  a  secret  happiness.  This  day  was  to  the 
young  girl  a  chain  which  bound  her  more  closely  than 
ever  to  the  destiny  of  the  man  she  had  chosen.  The 
force  and  dignity  he  displayed  in  the  scene  we  have 
just  related,  and  in  which  their  mutual  sentiments  had 
been  revealed,  may  have  inspired  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine  with  a  sense  of  respect  without  which  no 
true  love  exists. 

Later  in  the  evening,  being  alone  with  her  father 
and  uncle  in   the  salon,  the  former  came  up  to  her, 


The  Rural  Ball.  497 

took  her  hands  affectionately,  and  asked  if  she  had 
obtained  any  light  as  to  the  family  and  fortune  of 
Monsieur  Longueville. 

"Yes,  my  dear  father,'*  she  replied,  "and  I  am  hap- 
pier than  I  ever  thought  to  be.  Monsieur  de  Longue- 
ville is  the  only  man  I  ever  wished  to  marry." 

"Very  good,  !6milie,"  replied  her  father;  "then  I 
know  what  I  must  do." 

"Do  you  know  of  any  obstacle?"  she  asked,  in  real 
anxiety. 

"My  dear  child,  this  young  man  is  absolutely  un- 
known; but,  unless  he  is  a  dishonest  man,  he  is  dear 
to  me  as  a  son,  because  you  love  him." 

"Dishonest!"  cried  Emilie;  "oh!  I  am  easy  about 
that.  My  uncle,  who  introduced  him  to  me,  knows 
that  much,  at  least.  Tell  me,  uncle  dear,  has  he  ever 
been  a  pirate,  a  filibuster,  a  corsair?" 

"  Ah !  I  knew  I  should  come  to  this ! "  exclaimed  the 
old  sailor,  waking  up  from  a  nap. 

He  looked  about  the  salon,  but  his  niece  had  disap- 
peared,—  like  Castor  and  Pollux,  to  use  one  of  his 
own  expressions, 

"Well,  uncle,"  said  Monsieur  de  Fontaine,  "why 
have  you  hidden  from  us  all  this  time  what  you  know 
of  this  young  man?  You  must  have  seen  what  was 
going  on.  Is  Monsieur  de  Longueville  of  good 
family?" 

"I  don't  know  him  from  Adam,"  cried  the  admiral. 
"Trusting  to  the  tact  of  that  wilful  girl  I  brought  her 
the  Saint-Preux  she  wanted,  by  means  known  to  my- 
self alone.  All  I  know  about  the  lad  is  that  he  is  a 
fine  shot,  hunts  well,  plays  a  marvellous  game  of  bil- 

'62 


498  The  Rural  Ball. 

liards,  also  chess  and  backgammoii ;  and  he  fences  and 
rides  like  the  Chevalier  de  Saint-Georges.  Also  he 
has  a  most  amazing  erudition  about  vineyards ;  and  he 
can  cipher  like  Bar^me,  and  draws  and  dances  and 
sings  well.  What  the  devil  do  you  want  else  ?  If  that 
is  n't  all  a  perfect  gentleman  need  be,  show  me  a  bour- 
geois who  knows  as  much,  or  a  man  who  lives  more 
nobly  than  he.  You  see  for  yourself  he  doesn't  do 
anything.  Does  he  compromise  his  dignity  in  an 
office,  and  bow  down  to  parvenus,  as  you  call  directors- 
general?  No,  he  walks  erect.  He's  a  man.  But 
here,  by  the  bye,  in  the  pocket  of  my  waistcoat  is  the 
card  he  gave  me  when  he  thought,  poor  innocent!  that 
I  wanted  to  cut  his  throat.  Ha !  young  men  nowadays 
haven't  any  tricks  in  their  bag.     Here 's  the  card." 

''Rue  du  Sentier,  number  5,"  said  Monsieur  de  Fon- 
taine, trying  to  remember  that  address  among  the 
various  pieces  of  information  he  had  obtained  from 
his  inquiries.  ''What  the  devil  does  that  mean? 
Palma,  Werbrust  and  company,  wholesale  dealers  in 
muslins,  calicos,  and  printed  cottons  of  all  kinds  live 
there —  Ah!  I  have  it!  Longueville,  the  deputy, 
has  an  interest  in  that  firm.  Yes,  but  I  know  Longue- 
ville has  a  son  thirty-two  years  old,  not  the  least  like 
this  man,  to  whom  he  has  just  given  fifty  thousand  a 
year  in  order  to  marry  him  to  the  daughter  of  a  min- 
ister ;  he  wants  to  be  made  a  peer  like  all  the  rest.  I 
never  heard  him  mention  a  son  called  Maximilien. 
And  he  has  n't  a  daughter,  so  far  as  I  know.  Who  is 
this  Clara?  Besides,  it  is  open  to  any  adventurer  to 
call  himself  Longueville,  or  anything  else  he  likes. 
I  '11  make  some  inquiries  about  Palma  and  Werbrust." 


The  Rural  Ball.  499 

"You  talk  as  if  you  held  the  stage  alone,"  cried  the 
old  admiral,  "Do  you  count  me  for  nothing?  Don't 
you  know  that  if  he  is  a  gentleman  I  've  got  more  than 
one  sack  in  my  lockers  to  repair  his  lack  of  fortune  ?  ** 

**As  for  that,  if  he  is  Longueville  the  deputy's  son, 
he  needs  nothing;  but,"  added  Monsieur  de  Fontaine, 
shaking  his  head  from  right  to  left,  "he  has  n't  even 
bought  a  property  which  carries  a  title.  Before  the 
Revolution  he  was  only  an  attorney,  and  the  de  he  has 
stuck  on  since  the  Restoration  no  more  belongs  to  him 
than  one  half  of  his  wealth." 

"Ah,  bah!  happy  those  whose  fathers  were  hanged !  " 
cried  the  old  sailor,  gayly. 

Three  or  four  days  later,  on  one  of  those  fine  days 
in  November  when  Parisians  find  the  pavement  of 
their  boulevard  cleansed  by  a  slight  touch  of  frost, 
Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  wearing  a  set  of  new  furs 
which  she  wished  to  make  the  fashion,  had  gone  out 
shopping  with  two  of  her  sisters-in-law,  the  two  whom 
she  was  most  inclined  to  ridicule.  The  three  ladies 
were  induced  to  make  this  expedition  less  to  exhibit 
an  elegant  new  carriage  and  dresses  in  the  latest  style, 
than  to  see  a  certain  pelerine  that  one  of  their  friends 
had  remarked  in  the  large  lace  and  linen  shop  at  the 
corner  of  the  rue  de  la  Paix. 

As  the  three  sisters  entered  the  shop  the  Baronne  de 
Fontaine  pulled  i^milie  by  the  sleeve  and  pointed  out 
to  her  Maximilien  Longueville  behind  the  counter, 
occupied  at  that  moment  in  receiving  money  from  the 
mistress  of  the  shop,  with  whom  he  seemed  to  be  con- 
feiTing.  In  his  hand  he  held  several  patterns  which 
left  no  doubt  as  to  the  nature  of  his  occupation. 


500  The  Rural  Ball. 

ifimilie  was  seized  with  a  cold  shudder,  fortunately 
unperceived.  Thanks  to  the  savoir-vivre  of  good 
society,  she  hid  the  fury  in  her  heart  and  replied  to 
her  sister  with  the  words,  *'I  knew  it,"  in  a  richness 
of  tone  and  with  an  inimitable  accent  which  might 
have  made  the  fortune  of  an  actress  on  the  stage. 

She  advanced  to  the  counter;  Longueville  raised  his 
head,  put  the  patterns  in  his  pocket  with  perfect  self- 
possession,  bowed  to  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine,  and 
came  out  to  meet  her,  giving  her,  as  he  did  so,  a  pene- 
trating look. 

"Madame,"  he  said  to  the  mistress  of  the  shop,  who 
had  followed  anxiously,  "I  will  send  the  money  for 
this  bill.  My  firm  prefers  to  do  business  in  that  way. 
But  here,"  he  added,  in  a  whisper,  "is  a  thousand- 
franc  note  —  take  it;  we  will  settle  the  matter  between 
us  later.  You  will,  I  hope,  pardon  me,  mademoi- 
selle," he  said,  turning  back  to  !l6milie,  "and  be  so 
kind  as  to  excuse  the  tyranny  of  business." 

"It  seems  to  me,  monsieur,  that  the  matter  is  one  to 
which  I  am  totally  indifferent,"  replied  Mademoiselle 
de  Fontaine,  looking  at  him  with  a  vacant  air  which 
might  have  led  a  spectator  to  think  she  saw  him  for 
the  first  time. 

"Are  you  speaking  seriously  ?  "  asked  Maximilien, 
in  a  broken  voice. 

For  all  answer  ifemilie  turned  her  back  upon  him  with 
inconceivable  rudeness.  These  few  words,  said  in  a 
low  voice,  had  escaped  the  notice  of  the  sisters-in-law. 
When,  after  having  purchased  the  pelerine,  the  three 
ladies  returned  to  their  carriage,  fimilie,  who  -was 
sitting  on  the  front  seat,  could  not  refrain  from  glanc- 


The  Rural  Ball.  501 

ing  into  the  depths  of  that  odious  shop,  where  she  saw 
Maximilien  standing  with  his  arms  crossed,  in  the  atti- 
tude of  a  man  superior  to  the  trouble  which  had  come 
upon  him  so  suddenly.  Their  eyes  met,  and  each 
gave  to  the  other  an  implacable  look.  Each  hoped  to 
cruelly  wound  the  other's  heart.  In  a  moment  they 
found  themselves  as  far  apart  as  if  one  were  in  China, 
the  other  in  Greenland.  The  breath  of  worldliness 
had  withered  all ! 

A  prey  to  the  most  violent  struggle  that  ever  went 
on  in  the  heart  of  a  young  girl ,  Mademoiselle  de  Fon- 
taine gathered  the  amplest  harvest  of  bitter  fruits 
which  prejudice  and  pettiness  ever  sowed  in  a  human 
soul.  Her  face,  fresh  and  velvety  a  few  moments  ear- 
lier, was  furrowed  with  yellow  tones  and  red  stains, 
and  even  the  white  of  her  cheeks  turned  greenish.  In 
the  hope  of  hiding  her  trouble  from  her  sisters  she 
ridiculed  the  passers  in  the  street  or  laughed  at  a  cos- 
tume ;  but  the  laugh  was  convulsive.  She  was  more 
deeply  wounded  by  the  silent  compassion  of  her  sisters 
than  she  would  have  been  by  the  sharpest  sarcasms 
which  she  might  have  revenged.  She  taxed  her  whole 
mind  to  drag  them  into  a  conversation  in  which  she 
vented  her  anger  in  senseless  paradoxes  of  the  worst 
taste.  On  reaching  home  she  became  really  ill,  and 
was  seized  with  a  fever  which  at  first  showed  dangerous 
symptoms.  At  the  end  of  a  month,  however,  the  care 
of  her  family  and  her  physician  restored  her  entirely. 
Every  one  hoped  that  the  lesson  would  subdue  her  self- 
will  ;  but  she  declared  there  was  no  shame  in  having 
made  a  mistake,  and  she  once  more  flung  herself  into 
society  and  returned  to  her  former  habits  of  life.     If, 


502  The  Rural  Ball 

she  said,  she  had,  like  her  father,  influence  in  the 
Chamber,  she  would  pass  a  law  that  all  merchants  and 
shopkeepers  should  be  branded  on  the  forehead,  like 
the  sheep  of  Berry,  to  the  third  generation ;  it  was  a 
great  injury  to  the  monarchy  that  there  was  no  visible 
difference  between  a  merchant  and  a  peer  of  France. 

A  hundred  other  such  jests  were  poured  out  rapidly 
when  any  unforeseen  accident  started  the  topic.  But 
those  who  loved  her  were  conscious  through  her  sar- 
casms of  a  tone  of  melancholy.  Evidently  Maxi- 
milien  Longueville  still  reigned  at  the  bottom  of  that 
inexplicable  heart.  Sometimes  she  would  be  gentle  and 
sweet  as  she  had  been  during  the  brief  period  when  her 
love  was  born,  and  then  again  she  would  make  herself 
intolerable.  Her  family  excused  these  variations  of 
temper,  knowing  that  they  had  their  rise  in  sufferings 
known  and  unknown.  The  Comte  de  Kergarouet  alone 
obtained  some  slight  control  over  her,  and  this  was 
partly  by  gifts  and  amusements,  a  species  of  consola- 
tion which  seldom  misses  its  effect  on  a  Parisian  girl. 

The  first  ball  that  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  went  to 
that  winter  was  at  the  house  of  the  Neapolitan  ambas- 
sador. As  she  was  taking  her  place  in  a  quadrille  she 
saw,  not  far  from  her,  Maxmilien  Longueville,  who 
nodded  slightly  to  her  partner. 

"Is  that  young  man  a  friend  of  yours?  "  she  asked, 
disdainfully. 

"  Only  my  brother, "  he  replied. 

!^milie  could  not  help  trembling. 

"Ah!"  continued  her  partner  in  a  tone  of  enthu- 
siasm, "he  is  the  noblest  soul  in  the  world  —  " 

"  Do  you  know  my  name?  "  asked  fimilie,  interrupt- 
ing him,  hastily. 


The  Rural  Ball  503 

"No,  mademoiselle.  It  is  a  crime,  I  know,  not  to 
recollect  a  name  which  must  be  on  every  lip,  or,  I 
should  say,  in  every  heart;  but  my  excuse  is  that  I 
have  just  returned  from  Germany.  My  ambassador, 
who  is  in  Paris  on  leave  of  absence,  has  sent  me  here 
this  evening  to  serve  as  chaperon  to  his  amiable  wife, 
whom  you  can  see  over  there  in  a  corner." 

"A  tragic  muse,"  said  £milie,  after  examining  the 
ambassadress. 

"But  that  *s  her  ball  face,"  returned  the  young  dip- 
lomat, laughing.  "I  must  ask  her  to  dance;  that's 
why  I  take  my  consolation  now."  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine  made  him  a  little  bow.  "I  am  so  surprised," 
continued  the  chattering  secretary,  "to  see  my  brother 
here.  On  arriving  from  Vienna  I  was  told  he  was  ill 
in  bed,  and  I  wanted  to  go  to  him  at  once ;  but  diplo- 
macy and  politics  leave  no  time  for  family  affections. 
La  padrona  delta  casa  keeps  me  in  attendance,  and 
gives  me  no  chance  to  see  my  poor  Maximilien." 

"Is  your  brother,  like  yourself,  in  diplomacy?  "  said 
£milie. 

"No,"  said  the  secretary,  sighing.  "The  poor 
fellow  has  sacrificed  himself  to  me.  He  and  my  sister 
Clara  have  renounced  their  share  of  my  father's  prop- 
erty to  make  an  entail  for  me.  My  father  is  a  deputy 
and  expects  a  peerage  for  his  services  to  the  govern- 
ment He  has  the  promise  of  it,"  added  the  young 
man,  in  a  low  voice.  "My  brother,  after  getting 
together  a  little  capital,  chiefly  from  our  mother's 
property,  has  gone  into  a  banking  business,  and  he  has 
just  made  a  speculation  in  Brazil  which  is  likely  to 
make  him  a  millionnaire.     I  am  very  happy  in  the 


604  The  Bural  Ball. 

thought  that  I  have  helped  him  by  my  diplomatic  rela- 
tions to  this  success.  I  am  now  expecting  a  despatch 
from  Brazil  which  I  feel  sure  will  clear  that  gloomy 
brow  of  his.     Don't  you  think  him  handsome?" 

"His  face  does  n't  seem  to  me  that  of  a  man  who 
spends  his  thoughts  on  making  money,"  she  replied. 

The  young  diplomatist  gave  a  glance  at  the  seem- 
ingly calm  face  of  his  partner. 

'*Ah!"  said  he,  "so  young  ladies  can  detect  the 
thoughts  of  love  beneath  all  foreheads!" 

"Is  your  brother  in  love?  "  asked  Emilie,  in  a  tone 
of  curiosity. 

"Yes.  My  sister  Clara,  whom  he  cares  for  like  a 
mother,  wrote  me  that  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  very 
pretty  girl;  but  I  have  had  no  further  news  of  the 
affair.  Would  you  believe  it,  the  poor  fellow  used  to 
get  up  at  five  in  the  morning  so  as  to  get  through  his 
business  and  ride  out  into  the  country,  where  the  lady 
was  staying.  He  ruined  a  fine  thorough-bred  horse  I 
had  sent  him.  Forgive  my  chatter,  mademoiselle,  I 
am  just  from  Germany,  where  I  haven't  heard  a  word 
of  pure  French  spoken ;  I  am  so  hungry  for  French 
faces  and  sick  of  Germans  that  I  'd  talk,  I  believe,  to 
the  griffins  on  a  candlestick.  Besides,  the  fault  is 
yours,  mademoiselle ;  you  asked  me  about  my  brother, 
and  when  I  get  on  that  subject  I  am  irrepressible.  I 
should  like  to  tell  the  whole  earth  how  good  and  gener- 
ous he  is.  He  has  given  up  a  hundred  thousand  francs 
a  year  to  me  from  our  estates  at  Longueville." 

If  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  obtained  all  this  infor- 
mation she  owed  it  partly  to  the  cleverness  with  which 
flhe  questioned  her  confiding  partner. 


The  Rural  Ball,  505 

"How  can  you  bear  to  see  your  brother  selling 
calico  and  muslins?"  asked  fimilie,  as  they  finished 
the  third  figure  of  the  quadrille. 

"How  do  you  know  he  does?"  asked  the  diplomat- 
ist. "Thank  heaven!  if  I  do  rattle  off  a  flux  of  words 
I  have  learned  to  say  no  more  than  I  choose,  like  the 
other  fledgling  diplomatists  of  my  acquaintance." 

"I  assure  you  that  you  told  me  so." 

Monsieur  de  Longueville  looked  at  Mademoiselle  de 
Fontaine  with  a  surprise  that  was  full  of  intelligence. 

A  suspicion  entered  his  mind.  He  glanced  from  his 
partner  to  his  brother,  and  guessed  all ;  he  clapped  his 
hands  together,  threw  up  his  eyes  and  began  to 
laugh: — 

"I  am  nothing  but  a  fool,"  he  said.  "You  are  the 
handsomest  person  here,  my  brother  is  watching  you 
furtively,  he  is  dancing  in  spite  of  his  illness,  and  you 
are  pretending  not  to  see  him!  Make  him  happy," 
he  added,  as  he  took  her  back  to  her  old  uncle.  "I  '11 
not  be  jealous ;  though  perhaps  I  shall  wince  a  little  at 
calling  you  my  sister." 

However,  the  two  lovers  were  resolved  on  being 
inexorable.  About  two  in  the  morning  a  collation  was 
served  in  a  vast  gallery,  where,  in  order  to  allow  per- 
sons of  the  same  set  to  be  together,  the  tables  were 
arranged  as  they  are  at  a  restaurant.  By  one  of  those 
accidents  which  are  always  happening  to  lovers  Made- 
moiselle de  Fontaine  found  herself  placed  at  a  table 
adjoining  that  around  which  sat  some  very  distin- 
guished persons.  Maximilien  was  among  them.  £mi- 
lie  listened  with  attentive  ears  to  the  talk  of  these 
neighbors.     The  companion  of  the  young  merchant 


506  The  Rural  Ball 

was  a  Neapolitan  duchess  of  great  beauty,  and  the 
intimacy  that  he  affected  to  have  with  her  was  all 
the  more  wounding  to  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  be- 
cause at  that  moment  she  was  conscious  of  a  tenfold 
deeper  tenderness  for  her  lover  than  she  had  ever  felt 
before. 

*' Yes,  monsieur,  in  my  country,  true  love  can  make 
all  kinds  of  sacrifices,"  the  duchess  was  saying  in  a 
mincing  way. 

"You  Italians  are  far  more  loving  than  French- 
women," said  Maximilien,  looking  full  at  £milie. 
*'They  are  all  vanity." 

"Monsieur,"  said  Slmilie,  quickly,  "it  is  an  ill  thing 
to  calumniate  your  country.  Devotion  belongs  to  all 
lands." 

"Do  you  think,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  duchess, 
with  a  sarcastic  smile,  "that  a  Parisian  woman  would 
be  capable  of  following  her  lover  everywhere  ?  " 

"Ah!  understand  me,  madame;  she  would  follow 
him  to  the  desert  and  live  in  tents,  but  not  behind  the 
counter  of  a  shop." 

£milie  emphasized  these  words  with  a  gesture  of 
disdain.  Thus  the  influence  exercised  over  the  girl  by 
her  fatal  education  killed  her  dawning  happiness  twice, 
and  made  her  life  a  failure.  The  apparent  coldness 
of  Maximilien  and  the  smile  of  a  woman,  drew  from 
her  a  sarcasm  the  treacherous  delight  of  which  she 
could  not  deny  herself. 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Longueville,  in  a  low  voice, 
under  cover  of  the  noise  the  women  made  when  rising 
from  table,  "no  one  will  ever  offer  more  ardent  wishes 
for  your  happiness  than  I.    Permit  me  to  give  you  this 


The  Rural  Ball.  607 

assurance  on  taking  leave  of  you.     I  start  in  a  few 
days  for  Italy." 

"With  a  duchess,  I  suppose." 

"No,  mademoiselle,  with  what  may  prove  a  mortal 
illness." 

**Is  that  a  fancy?"  asked  6milie,  giving  him  an 
uneasy  glance. 

"  No,"  he  answered,  "for  there  are  wounds  that  never 
heal." 

"You  will  not  go,"  said  the  imperious  young  girl, 
with  a  smile. 

"1  shall  go,"  returned  Longueville,  gravely. 

"You  will  find  me  married  on  your  return,  I  warn 
you,"  she  said,  coquettishly. 

"I  hope  so." 

"Impertinent  man!  "  she  said  to  herself;  "he  takes 
a  cruel  vengeance." 

A  fortnight  later  Maximilien  Longueville  started 
with  his  sister  Clara  for  the  balmy  and  poetic  regions 
of  la  bella  Jtalia,  leaving  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine  a 
victim  to  bitter  regrets.  The  young  secretary  of 
legation  took  up  his  brother's  quan*el,  and  revenged 
him  publicly  by  telling  everywhere  the  reasons  for  the 
rupture.  The  Comte  de  Fontaine  was  obliged  to  use 
his  credit  at  court  to  obtain  for  Auguste  Longueville 
a  mission  to  Russia  to  protect  his  daughter  from  the 
ridicule  this  young  and  dangerous  persecutor  heaped 
upon  her. 

Not  long  after,  the  administration  was  compelled  to 
make  a  new  batch  of  peers  to  strengthen  the  aristo- 
cratic body  in  the  Upper  Chamber,  which  was  begin- 
ning to  totter  under  the  voice  of  an  illustrious  writer.* 


508  The  Rural  Ball. 

among  them  appeared  the  name  of  Monsieur  de 
Longueville,  the  father,  with  the  rank  of  viscount. 
Monsieur  de  Fontaine  was  also  raised  to  the  peerage,  a 
reward  due  to  his  devotion  during  the  dark  days,  and 
also  to  his  name,  which  was  lacking  to  the  roll  of  the 
hereditary  Chamber. 

About  this  time  Emilie,  who  had  now  attained  her 
majority,  made,  in  all  probability,  some  serious  reflec- 
tions upon  life;  for  she  changed  completely  in  tone 
and  manner.  Instead  of  saying  ill-natured  things  to 
her  uncle,  she  began  to  show  him  the  most  affectionate 
attentions ;  she  brought  him  his  crutch  with  a  persist- 
ent tenderness  which  made  the  family  laugh,  she  gave 
him  her  arm,  she  went  to  drive  in  his  coach,  and  took 
walks  with  him  daily.  She  even  persuaded  him  that 
she  liked  the  smell  of  his  pipe,  and  read  his  dear 
"  Quotidienne  "  aloud  to  him  in  the  midst  of  clouds  of 
tobacco  smoke  which  the  mischievous  old  fellow  would 
sometimes  puff  at  her  intentionally.  She  learned 
piquet  to  play  with  him,  and  she,  so  fastidious,  lis- 
tened without  impatience  to  his  ever-recurring  tales  of 
the  famous  fight  of  the  "Belle  Poule,"  the  manoeuvring 
of  the  "  Ville  de  Paris,"  the  first  expedition  of  Mon- 
sieur de  Suffren,  or  the  battle  of  Aboukir.  Though  the 
old  admiral  was  fond  of  saying  that  he  knew  his  lati- 
tude and  longitude  too  well  for  any  young  corvette  to 
overhaul  him,  the  salons  of  Paris  were  startled  one  fine 
morning  by  the  news  that  Mademoiselle  de  Fontaine 
had  married  the  Comte  de  Kergarouet. 

The  young  countess  gave  splendid  f^tes  to  divert  her 
mind;  but  she  soon  found  the  hollowness  of  her  vor- 
tex ;  luxury  was  a  poor  cover  to  the  emptiness  and 


The  Rural  Ball  509 

misery  of  her  suffering  soul ;  in  spite  of  her  feigned 
gayety,  her  beautiful  features  expressed,  for  the  most 
part,  a  dull  melancholy.  She  always,  however,  paid 
great  attention  to  her  old  husband,  and  her  whole  con- 
duct was  so  severely  proper  that  the  most  ill-natured 
critic  could  find  nothing  to  reprimand.  Observers 
thought  that  the  admiral  had  resers^ed  the  right  of 
disposing  of  his  fortune  so  as  to  hold  his  wife  the  more 
securely ;  but  this  supposition  was  unjust  both  to  the 
uncle  and  to  the  niece.  Their  demeanor  to  each  other 
was  so  judiciously  managed  that  those  most  interested 
were  unable  to  decide  whether  the  old  count  treated 
his  wife  as  a  father  or  as  a  husband;  though  the 
admiral  was  heard  to  say,  on  more  than  one  occasion, 
that  he  had  saved  his  niece  from  a  wreck;  and  that 
in  former  times  at  sea  he  had  never  abused  his  rights 
over  a  shipwrecked  enemy  who  fell  into  his  hands. 

Though  the  countess  aspired  to  reign  in  Parisian 
society,  and  successfully  endeavored  to  hold  her  own 
against  the  duchesses  de  Maufrigneuse  and  de  Chau- 
lieu,  the  marquises  d'Espard  and  d'Aiglemont,  the 
countesses  Feraud,  de  Montcornet,  de  Restand,  Ma- 
dame de  Camps  and  Mademoiselle  des  Touches,  she 
did  not  yield  to  the  love  of  the  young  Vicomte  de 
Porteuduere,  who  made  her  his  idol. 

Two  years  after  her  marriage,  being  in  one  of  the 
oldest  salons  of  the  faubourg  Saint-Germain,  Emilie 
heard  the  name  of  Monsieur  le  Vicomte  de  Longueville 
announced.  Her  emotion  passed  unperceived  in  the 
corner  of  the  salon  where  she  was  playing  piquet  with 
the  Bishop  of  Persepolis.  Turning  her  head,  she  saw 
her  former  lover  enter  the  room  in  the  glow  of  youth 


510  The  Rural  Ball, 

and  distinction.  The  death  of  his  father,  and  that  of 
his  brother  (killed  by  the  climate  of  St.  Petersburg) 
had  placed  upon  his  head  the  hereditary  plumes  of  the 
peerage ;  his  fortune  was  equal  to  his  station  and  his 
acquirements;  only  the  evening  before,  his  fiery  elo- 
quence had  electrified  the  Chamber.  At  this  moment 
he  appeared  before  the  eyes  of  the  sad  countess,  free, 
and  adorned  with  all  the  advantages  she  had  formerly 
demanded  in  her  ideal  lover;  and  more  than  all,  fimilie 
knew  well  that  the  Vicomte  de  Longueville  possessed 
that  firmness  of  character  in  which  a  woman  of  sense 
sees  the  strongest  pledge  of  happiness.  She  cast  her 
eyes  upon  the  admiral,  who,  to  use  his  own  expression, 
was  likely  to  swing  at  anchor  for  a  long  time  to  come, 
and  she  cursed  the  follies  and  errors  of  her  youth. 

Just  then  Monsieur  de  Persepolis  remarked  with 
his  episcopal  grace,  — 

"My  dear  lady,  you  have  thrown  away  the  king  of 
hearts,  and  I  win.  But  don*t  regret  your  money;  I 
keep  it  for  my  ragged  schools." 


THE  DESERTED  WOMAN 


THE  DESERTED  WOMAN 


To  Madame  la  Duchesse  d'Abrant^s. 

Her  affectionate  Servant, 

Honors  db  Balzao. 

Early  in  the  spring  of  1822  the  Parisian  doctors 
sent  to  lower  Normandy  a  young  man  who  was  recov- 
ering from  an  inflammatory  illness  caused  by  some 
excess  of  study,  possibly  of  life.  His  convalescence 
required  complete  rest,  simple  food,  a  cold  air,  and 
the  total  absence  of  all  excessive  sensations.  The 
lush  fields  of  the  Bessin  and  the  pale  life  of  the  prov- 
inces seemed  therefore  propitious  for  his  recovery. 
He  went  to  Bayeux,  a  pretty  town  two  leagues  from 
the  sea,  to  the  house  of  a  cousin  who  received  him 
with  the  cordiality  characteristic  of  those  who  live 
habitually  in  retirement,  and  to  whom  the  aiTival  of 
a  relation  or  a  friend  becomes  a  joy. 

All  little  towns  resemble  each  other,  except  perhaps 
in  a  few  local  customs.  So  that  after  a  few  evenings 
spent  with  his  cousin,  Madame  de  Sainte-Severe,  or 
WMth  the  persons  who  formed  her  society,  this  young 
Parisian,  M.  le  Baron  Gaston  de  Nueil,  soon  knew  all 
there  was  to  know  of  that  exclusive  circle  who  re- 
garded themselves  as  being  the  whole  town.     Gaston 

33 


514  The  Deserted   Woman, 

de  Nueil  saw  in  thein  that  immutable  clique  which 
observers  find  in  all  the  numerous  capitals  of  the  an- 
cient States  that  formed  the  France  of  other  times. 

First  comes  the  family  whose  nobility,  unknown  at 
a  distance  of  fifty  leagues,  passes  in  the  department 
as  being  incontestable  and  of  the  highest  antiquity. 
This  species  of  royal  family  on  a  minor  scale  is  re- 
motely connected  by  marriage  with  the  Navarreins, 
the  Grandlieus,  the  Cadignans,  and  even  lays  hold  of 
the  Blamont-Chauvrys.  The  head  of  this  illustrious 
race  is  always  a  determined  sportsman.  A  man  with- 
out manners,  he  crushes  every  one  by  his  nominal 
superiority,  tolerates  the  sub-prefect  precisely  as  he 
submits  to  taxation;  acknowledges  none  of  the  new 
powers  created  by  the  nineteenth  century,  and  calls 
attention  to  the  fact,  as  a  political  monstrosity,  that 
the  prime  minister  is  not  a  noble.  His  wife  takes  a 
peremptory  tone,  talks  loudly,  has  had  adorers,  but 
receives  the  sacrament  at  Easter  regularly;  she  brings 
up  her  daughters  badly,  and  thinks  that  their  name  is 
fortune  enough  for  their  establishment.  Neither  wife 
nor  husband  has  the  slightest  idea  of  modern  luxury; 
they  keep  to  their  old  state  liveries  and  ancient  forms 
of  plate,  furniture,  and  carriages,  as  they  do  to  their 
manners,  customs,  and  language.  This  long-past 
splendour  comports,  however,  with  the  thrift  of  the 
provinces.  In  short,  these  are  the  nobles  of  the  olden 
time,  minus  the  feudal  levies,  minus  the  packs  of 
hounds  and  the  gold-laced  coats;  all  full  of  honour 
among  themselves,  and  all  devoted  to  princes  whom 
they  see  only  from  a  distance.  This  historical,  in- 
cognito   family   has   the    originality  of   an   ancient 


The  Deserted  Woman,  515 

tapestry  of  noted  warp.  In  it  vegetates  infallibly 
an  uncle  or  a  brother,  lieutenant-general,  red-rib- 
boned, and  a  courtier,  who  went  to  Hanover  with 
Marechal  Richelieu,  and  whom  you  find  here  like  a 
stray  leaf  from  a  pamphlet  of  the  days  of  Louis  XV. 

To  this  fossil  family  is  opposed  a  richer  family, 
but  of  less  ancient  nobility.  The  husband  and  wife 
spend  two  months  every  winter  in  Paris,  the  fleeting 
tone  and  ephemeral  passions  of  which  they  duly  re- 
port. Madame  is  elegant,  but  rather  starched,  and 
always  a  little  behind  in  the  fashions.  Nevertheless, 
she  sneers  at  the  ignorance  affected  by  her  neigh- 
bours; her  plate  is  modern;  she  has  grooms,  negro 
pages,  and  footmen.  'Her  eldest  son  has  a  tilbury, 
does  nothing,  —  he  is  the  heir;  the  younger  is  auditor 
to  the  Council  of  State.  The  father,  very  well  posted 
in  the  intrigues  of  the  ministry,  relates  anecdotes  of 
Louis  XVIII.  and  Madame  du  Cayla;  he  invests  in 
the  "five  per  cents,"  avoids  conversation  about  ciders, 
but  does  sometimes  give  in  to  the  mania  for  reducing 
the  amount  of  departmental  fortunes ;  he  is  member  of 
the  Council-General,  gets  his  clothes  from  Paris,  and 
wears  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of  honour.  In  short, 
this  nobleman  has  understood  the  Restoration,  and 
coins  money  with  the  Chamber;  but  his  royalism  is 
less  **pure"  than  that  of  the  family  he  rivals.  He 
takes  the  "Gazette"  and  the  "Debats;"  the  other 
family  reads  only  the  "Quotidienne." 

Monseigneur  the  bishop,  formerly  vicar-general, 
floats  between  these  two  powers,  which  render  him 
the  homage  due  to  religion,  but  make  him  feel  at 
times  the  moral  that  the  good  La  Fontaine  has  placed 


516  The  Deserted  Woman, 

at  the  end  of  "The  Ass  bearing  Relics."  The  worthy 
bishop  is  a  commoner. 

Next  come  secondary  stars,  nobles  who  enjoy  some 
ten  or  twelve  thousand  francs  a  year;  who  have  been 
captains  in  the  navy,  or  the  cavalry,  or  nothing  at  all. 
On  horseback  along  the  roads  they  hold  a  middle  dis- 
tance between  the  rector  who  bears  the  sacraments, 
and  the  controller  of  taxes  on  his  rounds.  Nearly  all 
have  been  pages  at  Court,  or  in  the  mousquetaires, 
and  are  ending  their  days  peaceably  in  getting  the 
most  out  of  their  means ;  more  concerned  about  their 
timber  or  their  cider  than  about  the  monarchy. 
Nevertheless,  they  converse  of  the  Charter  and  the 
liberals  between  two  rubbers  of  whist  or  games  of 
dominoes,  after  having  calculated  dots  and  arranged 
marriages  according  to  genealogies  which  they  know 
by  heart.  Their  wives  assume  a  haughty  manner  and 
take  Court  airs  in  their  wicker  phaetons ;  they  think 
themselves  in  full  dress  when  rigged  with  a  scarf 
and  a  head-dress.  They  buy  two  bonnets  yearly,  after 
mature  deliberation,  and  occasionally  import  them 
from  Paris.    They  are  usually  virtuous  and  gossiping. 

Around  these  principal  elements  of  the  aristocratic 
tribe  are  grouped  a  few  old  maids  of  quality,  who 
have  solved  the  problem  of  immobility  in  human 
creatures.  They  appear  to  be  sealed  up  in  the  houses 
where  you  find  them ;  their  figures,  their  clothes,  are 
part  of  the  estate,  of  the  town,  of  the  province ;  they 
are  the  tradition,  the  memory,  the  spirit  thereof.  All 
have  something  rigid  and  monumental  about  them; 
they  smile,  or  shake  their  heads  apropos,  and,  from 
time  to  time,  say  things  that  pass  for  witty. 


The  Deserted   Woman,  517 

A  few  rich  bourgeois  have  slipped  into  this  minia- 
ture Faubourg  St.  Ge'rmain,  thanks  to  their  aristo- 
cratic opinions  or  their  money.  But  once  there,  in 
spite  of  their  forty  years,  the  clique  says  of  them: 
*'That  young  so  and  so  thinks  well"  and  helps  to 
make  them  deputies.  Usually  they  are  patronized  by 
the  old  maids  —  which  causes  gossip. 

Finally,  two  or  three  ecclesiastics  are  admitted  into 
this  circle  of  the  4Iite,  either  because  of  their  cloth  or 
because  they  have  intelligence;  for  these  noble  per- 
sonages, bored  by  one  another,  are  ready  to  introduce 
a  bourgeois  element  into  their  salons  very  much  as  a 
baker  puts  yeast  into  his  dough. 

The  amount  of  intelligence  amassed  in  all  these 
heads  is  composed  of  a  certain  quantity  of  antique 
ideas,  with  which  are  mingled  a  proportion  of  new 
ideas,  which  brew  together  every  evening.  Like  the 
waters  of  a  little  cove,  the  phrases  that  represent  these 
ideas  have  their  daily  ebb  and  flow,  their  ceaseless 
eddy,  ever  the  same;  whoso  hears  to-day  its  hollow 
echo  will  hear  it  to-morrow,  a  year  hence,  ever.  Their 
immutable  verdicts  on  all  things  here  below  form  a 
traditional  knowledge,  to  which  it  is  not  in  the  power 
of  any  human  being  to  add  one  iota  of  intelligence. 
The  life  of  these  monotonous  persons  gravitates  in  a 
sphere  of  habits  as  unchangeable  as  their  religious, 
political,  moral,  and  literary  opinions. 

If  a  stranger  is  admitted  to  this  symposium  every 
one  will  say  to  him  in  a  tone  of  irony:  "You  will  not 
find  the  brilliancy  of  your  Parisian  society  among 
us;"  and  each  will  censure  the  lives  of  his  neigh- 
bours, endeavouring  to  have  it  believed  that  he  him- 


518  The  Deserted  Woman. 

self  is  an  exception  in  this  society  which  he  has, 
unsuccessfully,  endeavoured  to  renovate.  But  if, 
unfortunately,  the  stranger  should  strengthen  by  some 
remark  of  his  own  the  opinion  those  people  mutually 
entertain  of  one  another,  he  is  at  once  set  down  as  a 
malicious  person,  without  law  or  gospel,  a  corrupt 
Parisian,  "such  indeed  as  all  Parisians  are." 

When  Gaston  de  Nueil  appeared  in  this  little  social 
world,  where  etiquette  is  perfectly  observed,  where 
all  things  within  its  own  life  harmonize,  and  every- 
thing is  freely  stated,  nobiliary  and  territorial  values 
being  as  openly  quoted  as  stocks  at  the  Bourse  in  the 
financial  column  of  a  newspaper,  he  had  been  already 
weighed  in  the  infallible  scales  of  Bayeusian  opinion. 
His  cousin,  Madame  de  Sainte-Severe,  had  carefully 
told  the  amount  of  his  fortune  and  that  of  his  expec- 
tations; she  had  exhibited  his  genealogical  tree  and 
boasted  of  his  acquirements,  his  politeness,  his  mod- 
esty. He  therefore  received  the  greeting  to  which 
he  had  strictly  a  right;  he  was  accepted  as  a  sound 
noble,  without  ceremony  because  he  was  only  twenty- 
three  years  old ;  but  certain  young  persons  and  their 
mothers  looked  sweetly  upon  him.  He  possessed  in 
his  own  right  eighteen  thousand  francs  a  year  from 
property  in  the  valley  of  the  Auge,  and  his  father 
would  leave  him,  sooner  or  later,  the  chateau  of 
Manerville  with  all  its  dependencies.  As  for  his 
education,  his  political  future,  his  personal  merits, 
his  talents,  there  was  no  question  about  them.  His 
estates  were  good  and  the  rentals  certain;  excellent 
plantations  had  been  made  upon  them,  repairs  and 
taxes  were  paid   by  the  tenant-farmers;   the  apple- 


The  Deserted   Woman,  619 

trees  were  thirty-eight  years  old ;  his  father  was  now 
in  treaty  for  two  hundred  acres  of  woodland  adjoin- 
ing his  park,  which  he  meant  to  inclose  with  walls. 
No  ministerial  hopes,  no  human  celebrity  could  com- 
pete against  such  advantages.  Whether  from  malice 
or  calculation,  Madame  de  Sainte-Severe  had  never 
once  mentioned  Gaston's  elder  brother,  neither  did 
Gaston  say  a  word  about  him.  But  this  brother  was 
consumptive,  and  likely  to  be  buried,  mourned,  and 
forgotten  before  long. 

Gaston  de  Nueil  began  by  amusing  himself  with  all 
these  personages ;  he  drew,  as  it  were,  their  faces  in 
his  album,  in  all  the  vapid  verity  of  their  angular, 
hooked,  and  wrinkled  countenances,  in  the  droll 
originality  of  their  clothes  and  their  twitchings;  he 
delighted  in  the  Normanisms  of  their  idioms,  in  the 
musty  antiquity  of  their  ideas  and  characters.  But 
after  having  espoused  for  a  while  an  existence  that 
resembled  that  of  squirrels  turning  in  their  cage,  he 
felt  the  absence  of  opposing  elements  in  a  life  so  fixed 
beforehand,  like  that  of  monks  in  cloisters,  and  be- 
fore long  he  fell  into  a  nervous  state  which  was  not 
yet  that  of  ennui  or  disgust,  although  it  had  many  of 
the  effects  of  them.  After  slight  sufferings  from  such 
a  transition,  the  individual  finds  that  he  has  under- 
gone the  phenomenon  of  transplantation  into  a  region 
which  is  either  repugnant  to  him  or  in  which  he  soon 
becomes  atrophied  and  leads  a  stunted  life.  Com- 
monly, if  nothing  draws  him  out  of  this  society  he 
insensibly  adopts  its  usages,  and  grows  wonted  to  its 
void,  which  soon  gains  upon  him  and  reduces  him  to 
nonentity.      Already  Gaston's  lungs  were  beginning 


520  The  Deserted  Woman. 

to  get  accnstomed  to  this  atmosphere.  Almost  ready 
to  admit  a  sort  of  vegetating  happiness  in  days  passed 
without  cares  and  without  ideas,  he  was  beginning  to 
lose  consciousness  of  that  movement  of  sap,  that  con- 
stant fructification  of  minds,  which  he  had  so  ardently 
enjoyed  in  the  Parisian  sphere;  he  was,  in  short, 
about  to  petrify  among  these  petrifications,  and  stay 
there  forever,  like  the  companions  of  Ulysses  content 
with  his  comfortable  suiToundings. 

One  evening  Gaston  de  Nueil  chanced  to  find  him- 
self seated  between  an  old  lady  and  one  of  the  vicar- 
generals  of  the  diocese  in  a  panelled  salon  painted 
gray,  floored  with  large  white  tiles,  decorated  with 
family  portraits  and  occupied  by  four  card-tables 
around  which  sixteen  persons  were  babbling  and 
playing  whist.  There,  thinking  of  nothing,  but 
digesting  an  excellent  dinner  (the  conclusion  of  the 
day  in  the  provinces),  he  suddenly  found  himself 
explaining  and  justifying  to  himself  the  ways  of  these 
people.  He  saw  how  it  was  that  they  used  the  same 
cards  night  after  night,  on  the  same  worn-out  cloths, 
and  how  it  had  come  to  pass  that  they  dressed  neither 
for  their  own  sake  nor  for  that  of  others.  He  divined 
a  vague  philosophy  in  the  uniform  motion  of  this 
rotatory  life,  in  the  calm  of  these  logical  habits  and 
this  ignorance  of  all  real  elegance.  In  short,  he 
almost  comprehended  the  uselessness  of  luxury.  The 
city  of  Paris,  with  its  passions,  storms,  and  pleas- 
ures, was  already  a  mere  memory  of  adolescence  in 
his  mind.  He  sincerely  admired  the  re.d  hands,  the 
modest,  timid  air  of  a  young  girl,  whose  face,  at  first 
sight,  had  seemed  to  him  silly,  her  manners  without 


The  Deserted   Woman,  521 

grace,  her  general  effect  repulsive,  and  her  behaviour 
positively  ridiculous.  It  was  all  over  with  him! 
Having  gone  to  Paris  from  the  provinces,  he  would 
now  have  fallen  back  from  his  inflammatory  Parisian 
existence  to  the  cold  life  of  the  provinces,  if  a  few 
words  had  not  caught  his  ear  and  caused  him  an 
emotion  like  that  we  feel  when  some  original  melody 
breaks  in  among  the  accompaniments  of  a  wearisome 
opera. 

"Did  you  not  go  yesterday  to  see  Madame  de  Beau- 
s?ant?"  said  an  old  lady  to  the  head  of  the  great 
family  of  the  region. 

"I  went  there  this  morning,"  he  replied.  "I  found 
her  very  sad,  and  so  unwell  that  I  could  not  persuade 
her  to  dine  with  us  to-morrow." 

"With  Madame  de  Champignelles !  "  cried  the  dow- 
ager, in  a  tone  of  surprise. 

"With  my  wife,"  said  the  old  nobleman,  tranquilly. 
"Madame  de  Beauseant  belongs  to  the  family  of 
Bourgogne,  does  she  not?  Through  the  women,  it 
is  true,  but  that  name  whitens  all.  My  wife  is  very 
fond  of  the  vicomtesse,  and  the  poor  lady  has  been  so 
long  alone  that —  " 

As  he  said  the  last  words  the  Marquis  de  Cham- 
pignelles looked  with  a  calm,  cold  air  at  the  persons 
who  were  listening  to  him  and  watching  him.  Im- 
possible to  determine  whether  he  was  making  a  con- 
cession to  the  misfortunes  or  to  the  nobility  of 
Madame  de  Beauseant,  whether  he  was  flattered  to 
receive  her,  or  whether  he  wished  out  of  pride  to 
force  the  gentlemen  of  the  neighbourhood  and  their 
wives  to  visit  her. 


522  The  Deserted  Woman, 

All  the  ladies  present  seemed  to  consult  one  an- 
other with  a  glance ;  after  which  such  profound  silence 
reigned  in  the  salon  that  their  attitude  was  taken  as 
a  sign  of  disapprobation. 

*'Is  this  Madame  de  Beauseant  the  same  who  had 
the  affair  with  M.  Ajuda-Pinto,  that  made  so  much 
noise?"  asked  Gaston  of  the  lady  next  to  whom  he 
was  seated. 

"Precisely  the  same,"  was  the  answer.  "She  came 
to  live  at  Courcelles  after  the  marriage  of  the  Mar- 
quis d'Ajuda.  No  one  here  receives  her.  She  has, 
however,  too  much  intelligence  not  to  feel  the  false- 
ness of  her  position;  consequently,  she  has  never 
sought  to  know  any  one.  Monsieur  de  Champignelles 
and  a  few  other  men  have  called  upon  her,  but  she 
has  received  none  but  M.  de  Champignelles  —  on 
account,  perhaps,  of  their  relationship ;  they  are  con- 
nected through  the  Beauseants.  The  Marquis  de 
Beauseant,  the  father,  married  a  Champignelles  of 
the  elder  branch.  Though  the  Vicomtesse  de  Beau- 
seant is  descended  from  the  house  of  Bourgogne,  you 
understand,  of  course,  that  we  cannot  admit  into  our 
society  a  woman  who  is  separated  from  her  husband. 
There  are  certain  old-time  ideas  to  which  we  no  longer 
have  the  stupidity  to  adhere.  The  vicomtesse  was  all 
the  more  to  blame  in  her  behaviour  because  M.  de 
Beauseant  is  a  very  gallant  man,  a  man  of  the  Court; 
he  would  perfectly  have  accepted  the  affair.  But  his 
wife  is  so  impulsive." 

M.  de  Nueil,  while  hearing  the  old  lady's  voice 
was  not  listening  to  her.  He  was  absorbed  in  fan- 
tasy —  is  there  any  other  word  that  so  expresses  the 


The  Deserted   Woman,  523 

attraction  of  an  adventure  at  the  moment  when  it 
catches  the  imagination,  when  the  soul  conceives 
vague  hopes,  foresees  inexplicable  delights,  fears, 
events,  while  nothing  as  yet  feeds,  or  fixes,  the  ca- 
prices of  the  mirage?  The  spirit  wings  its  way, 
imagines  impossible  things,  and  gives  itself  in  germ 
all  the  joys  of  a  passion.  Perhaps  the  germ  of  a 
passion  contains  all  its  joys,  as  a  seed  contains  a 
beautiful  flower  with  its  fragrance  and  its  glowing 
colours.  M.  de  Nueil  was  not  ignorant  of  the  fact 
that  Madame  de  Beauseant  had  taken  refuge  in  Nor- 
mandy after  the  noise  of  an  affair  which  most  women 
envy  and  condemn,  especially  when  the  seductions  of 
youth  and  beauty  seem  almost  to  justify  the  fault 
itself.  There  is  an  inconceivable  prestige  in  every 
species  of  celebrity,  no  matter  to  what  it  may  be  due. 
It  seem3  as  if  to  women,  as  it  used  to  be  with  fami- 
lies, the  fame  of  a  crime  effaces  the  shame  of  it.  Just 
as  some  old  houses  actually  take  pride  in  their  be- 
headed ancestry,  a  young  and  pretty  woman  becomes 
the  more  attractive  through  the  fatal  renown  of  a 
happy  love  or  a  cruel  betrayal.  The  more  she  can 
be  pitied,  the  more  she  excites  sympathy.  We  are 
pitiless  only  to  things,  sentiments,  and  adventures 
that  are  commonplace.  By  attracting  eyes  we  are 
magnified.  And,  in  truth,  is  it  not  necessary  to  rise 
above  our  fellows  in  order  to  be  seen?  The  crowd 
feels,  involuntarily,  a  sentiment  of  respect  for  all  that 
is  great,  without  asking  its  ways  of  being  so. 

At  this  moment  Gaston  de  Nueil  felt  himself  im- 
pelled towards  Madame  de  Beauseant  by  the  secret 
influence  of  these  reasons,  or  perhaps  by  curiosity,  by 


524  The  Deserted  'Woman. 

the  need  to  put  an  interest  into  his  present  life;  in 
short,  by  that  crowd  of  motives  impossible  to  put 
into  words,  but  which  the  word  fatality  serves  to  ex- 
press. The  Vicomtesse  de  Beauseant  had  risen  before 
him  suddenly,  accompanied  by  a  host  of  graceful 
images ;  she  was  another  world ;  near  her  there  would 
doubtless  be  much  to  fear,  hope,  combat,  vanquish. 
She  would  contrast  with  the  persons  Gaston  saw 
about  him  in  that  dreary  salon.  In  short,  she  was  a 
woman;  and  he  had  never  yet  met  a  woman  in  this 
cold  society  where  calculation  took  the  place  of  senti- 
ment, where  politeness  was  merely  duty,  and  where 
the  simplest  ideas  found  something  too  wounding  to 
allow  them  to  be  uttered  or  understood.  Madame  de 
Beauseant  awakened  in  his  soul  the  memory  of  his 
youthful  dreams  and  his  keenest  passions,  lulled  to 
sleep  for  a  moment. 

M.  de  Nueil  was  absent-minded  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening.  He  sought  for  means  to  obtain  an  intro- 
duction to  Madame  de  Beauseant,  and  there  really 
seemed  none.  She  was  said  to  be  extremely  clever. 
But  if  clever  people  are  readily  attracted  by  original 
or  refined  things,  they  are  also  very  keen  and  able  to 
divine  motives;  near  them  there  are  often  as  many 
chances  to  be  foiled  as  to  be  successful  in  the  diffi- 
cult enterprise  of  pleasing.  Besides,  the  vicomtesse 
must,  of  course,  add  to  the  proud  reserve  of  her  situ- 
ation the  dignity  that  her  name  demanded.  The 
absolute  solitude  in  which  she  lived  seemed  to  him- 
the  least  of  the  barriers  raised  between  herself  and 
the  world.  It  was  therefore  almost  impossible  for  a 
stranger,  no  matter  how  good  his  family  might  be,  to 


The  Deserted   Woman.  625 

get  admittance  to  her.  The  next  morning,  however, 
M.  de  Nueil  walked  in  the  direction  of  the  villa  of 
Courcelles,  and  once  or  twice  made  a  tour  of  the  en- 
closure within  which  it  stood.  Impelled  by  the  illu- 
sions in  which,  at  his  age,  it  is  so  easy  to  believe,  he 
looked  through  the  openings  and  over  the  walls,  and 
stood  in  contemplation  before  the  closed  blinds,  or 
examined  attentively  those  that  were  open.  He  hoped 
for  some  romantic  chance,  he  combined  effects,  with- 
out perceiving  their  impossibility,  which  would  intro- 
duce him  to  the  recluse.  He  took  these  walks  for 
several  mornings  fruitlessly;  and  every  day  this 
woman,  placed  outside  of  society,  the  victim  of  love, 
buried  in  solitude,  was  magnified  in  his  thoughts  and 
lodged  more  and  more  in  his  soul.  Thus  it  was  that 
Gaston's  heart  beat  high  with  hope  and  joy  if  by 
chance,  skirting  the  walls  of  Courcelles,  he  heard  the 
heavy  step  of  a  gardener. 

He  thought  of  writing  to  Madame  de  Beaus^ant; 
but  what  can  be  said  to  a  woman  whom  you  have 
never  seen  and  who  does  not  know  you?  Besides, 
Gaston  distrusted  himself;  moreover,  like  all  young 
men  still  full  of  illusions,  he  feared,  more  than  death 
itself,  the  terrible  disdain  of  silence;  he  shuddered  in 
thinking  of  the  chances  his  first  amorous  prose  would 
have  of  being  flung  into  the  fire.  He  was  a  prey  to 
a  thousand  contradictory  ideas  which  fought  within 
him.  But  at  last,  by  dint  of  inventing  chimeras, 
composing  romances,  and  beating  his  brains,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  finding  one  of  those  happy  stratagems  which 
are  generally  to  be  met  with  among  the  multitude  of 
which  we  dream,  and  which  reveal  to  the  most  inno- 


526  The  Deserted   Woman, 

cent  woman  the  extent  of  the  ardoar  of  the  man's 
search  for  her.  Often,  social  caprices  create  as  many 
real  obstacles  between  a  woman  and  her  lover  as  the 
oriental  poets  have  put  into  the  delightful  fiction  of 
their  tales,  and  their  most  fantastic  imagery  is  not 
exaggerated.  So,  in  the  world  of  reality  as  in  fairy- 
land, the  woman  will  ever  belong  to  him  who  knows 
how  to  reach  her  and  deliver  her  from  the  situation  in 
which  she  languishes.  The  poorest  of  the  Calenders, 
falling  in  love  with  the  daughter  of  a  caliph,  was  cer- 
tainly not  separated  from  her  by  a  greater  distance 
than  that  between  Gaston  and  Madame  de  Beauseant. 
The  vicomtesse,  of  course,  lived  in  complete  igno- 
rance of  the  circumvallations  traced  around  her  by 
M.  de  Nueil,  whose  love  grew  and  increased  to  the 
height  of  the  obstacles  before  him,  obstacles  which 
gave  to  his  improvised  mistress  the  attraction  invari- 
ably possessed  by  distant  charms. 

One  day,  trusting  to  his  inspiration,  he  hoped  for 
all  from  the  love  that  would  gush  from  his  eyes.  Be- 
lieving speech  more  eloquent  than  the  most  passionate 
of  letters,  and  speculating  also  on  the  natural  curi- 
osity of  women,  he  went  to  M.  de  Champignelles  in 
order  to  employ  his  assistance  for  the  success  of  his 
enterprise.  He  told  him  that  he  had  an  important 
and  delicate  commission  to  perform  towards  Madame 
de  Beauseant,  but  not  feeling  sure  that  she  would 
read  letters  in  an  unknown  handwriting,  or  grant  an 
interview  to  a  stranger,  he  begged  him  to  ask  the 
vicomtesse  whether,  if  he  went  to  the  house,  she  would 
deign  to  receive  him.  While  asking  the  marquis  to 
keep  the  secret  in  case  of  refusal,  he  cleverly  sug- 


The  Deserted   Woman,  527 

gested  that  he  should  not  be  silent  to  Madame  de 
Beauseant  as  to  the  reasons  which  made  it  proper  that 
she  should  admit  him.  Was  he  not  a  man  of  honour, 
loyal,  and  Incapable  of  lending  himself  to  anything 
unbecoming  or  in  bad  taste?  The  haughty  gentle- 
man, whose  little  vanities  were  flattered,  was  com- 
pletely duped  by  this  diplomacy  of  love,  which  lends 
to  a  young  man  the  calm  assurance  and  deep  dissimu- 
lation of  an  old  ambassador.  He  tried  to  penetrate 
Gaston's  motives,  but  the  latter  (much  puzzled  to  tell 
them)  opposed  his  Norman  phrases  to  M.  de  Cham- 
pignelles*  adroit  questioning,  and  the  latter,  as  a  true 
French  knight,  praised  his  discretion. 

The  marquis  hurried  to  Courcelles,  with  the  eager- 
ness that  men  of  a  certain  age  put  into  doing  a  ser- 
vice to  a  pretty  woman.  In  Madame  de  Beauseant's 
peculiar  position,  such  a  message  was  of  a  nature  to 
puzzle  her.  Therefore,  although  in  consulting  her 
memory  she  could  not  see  any  reason  that  should 
bring  M.  de  Nueil  to  her,  she  also  saw  no  impropriety 
in  receiving  him,  after  first  making  sure  of  his  social 
position.  She  began,  however,  by  refusing;  then  she 
discussed  the  propriety  of  the  affair  with  M.  de  Cham- 
pignelles,  and  questioned  him,  trying  to  find  out 
whether  he  knew  the  motive  of  the  visit.  After 
that  she  withdrew  her  refusal.  The  discussion  and 
the  enforced  discretion  of  the  marquis  piqued  her 
curiosity. 

M.  de  Champignelles,  not  wishing  to  appear  ridicu- 
lous, pretended  to  assume,  like  a  well-informed  but 
discreet  man,  that  the  vicomtesse  knew  the  object  of 
the  visit  perfectly  well,  though  she  was  really  seeking 


528  The  Deserted  Woman, 

to  discover  it.  Madame  de  Beauseant,  on  the  other 
hand,  imagined  relations  between  Gaston  and  persons 
whom  he  did  not  even  know;  she  lost  herself  among 
the  most  absurd  conjectures,  and  vainly  wondered 
wliether  she  had  ever  seen  this  M.  de  Nueil.  The 
most  genuine  love-letter  or  the  cleverest,  would  not 
have  produced  as  much  effect  as  this  enigma  with- 
out a  key  which  Madame  de  Beauseant's  mind  turned 
over  and  over. 

When  Gaston  learned  that  he  could  see  her  he  was 
both  ravished  at  the  thought  of  obtaining  a  happiness 
so  desired  and  greatly  embarrassed  as  to  how  to  give 
a  reason  for  his  plot. 

"Bah!  to  see  her^^'  he  repeated,  as  he  dressed  him- 
self; "to  see  her,  that  is  all  I  care  for! " 

He  was  still  hoping,  as  he  entered  the  door  at  Cour- 
celles,  to  come  upon  some  expedient  that  should  undo 
the  gordian  knot  he  had  tied  himself.  Gaston  was 
one  of  those  young  fellows  who,  believing  in  the 
omnipotence  of  necessity,  go  forward  ever;  and,  at 
the  last  moment,  when  face  to  face  with  danger,  they 
are  inspired  by  it,  and  find  a  way  to  vanquish  it. 
He  took  especial  pains  with  his  dress.  He  imagined, 
like  all  young  men,  that  on  a  well  or  ill-placed  lock  of 
hair  his  success  depended,  unaware  that  in  youth  all 
is  charm  and  attraction.  Besides,  choice  women  like 
Madame  de  Beauseant  are  only  to  be  won  by  graces 
of  the  mind  and  superiority  of  character.  A  fine 
character  flatters  their  vanity,  offers  the  promise  of  a 
great  passion,  and  appears  to  admit  the  exigencies  of 
their  heart.  Wit  amuses  them,  it  replies  to  the  intui- 
tions of  their  nature,  and  they  think  themselves  un- 


The  Deserted    Woman,  629 

derstood ;  and  what  do  women  want  more  than  to  be 
amused,  understood,  and  adored?  It  is  necessary, 
however,  to  have  reflected  deeply  on  the  things  of  life 
to  divine  how  much  of  the  highest  coquetry  lies  in 
carelessness  of  dress  and  reserve  of  mind,  in  a  first 
interview.  When  we  are  sufficiently  shrewd  to  be  able 
politicians,  we  are  usually  too  old  to  profit  by  our 
experience.  While  Gaston  was  distrusting  his  own 
wits  by  borrowing  the  seduction  of  clothes,  Madame 
de  Beauseant  herself  was  instinctively  adding  ele- 
gance to  her  toilet,  saying  to  herself  as  she  arranged 
her  hair:  — 

*' There  is  no  need  that  I  should  look  like  a  fright." 

M.  de  Nueil  had  in  his  mind,  in  his  person,  and  in 
his  manners  that  naively  original  cast  which  gives  a 
sort  of  savour  to  ideas  and  actions  that  are  otherwise 
ordinary,  allows  all  to  be  said,  and  makes  everything 
acceptable.  He  was  well-educated,  observing,  and 
possessed  of  a  countenance  as  happy  and  mobile  as 
his  soul  was  impressible.  Passion  and  tenderness 
were  in  his  brilliant  eyes,  and  his  heart,  essentially 
good,  did  not  contradict  them.  The  resolution  he 
took  on  entering  Courcelles  was  therefore  in  harmony 
with  his  frank  nature  and  his  ardent  imagination. 
But  in  spite  of  the  intrepidity  of  love  he  could  not 
keep  himself  from  a  violent  palpitation  when,  after 
crossing  a  great  courtyard  laid  out  like  an  English 
garden,  he  reached  the  hall,  where  a  footman,  having 
taken  his  name,  disappeared  for  a  moment  and  then 
returned  to  introduce  him. 

*'M.  le  Baron  de  Nueil." 

Gaston  entered  slowly,  but  with  pretty  good  grace; 

84 


530  The  Deserted  Woman, 

a  matter  more  difficult  in  a  salon  where  there  is  but 
one  woman  than  where  there  are  twenty.  At  the  cor- 
ner of  the  chimney-piece,  within  which,  despite  the 
season,  a  large  fire  burned,  and  upon  which  were  two 
lighted  candelabra  that  threw  a  softened  glow  into  the 
I'oom,  he  saw  a  young  woman  seated  in  one  of  those 
modern  easy-chairs  with  very  high  backs  and  low 
seats,  which  allow  of  placing  the  head  in  many  varied 
poses  full  of  grace  and  elegance,  inclining  it,  bending 
it,  lifting  it  languidly  as  though  it  were  a  heavy  bur- 
den; while  the  feet  can  be  shown  or  withdrawn  be- 
neath the  long  folds  of  a  black  gown. 

The  vicomtesse  intended  to  lay  the  book  she  was 
reading  on  a  little  round  table,  but  having  at  the  same 
moment  turned  her  head  towards  M.  de  Neuil,  the 
book,  half-placed,  fell  upon  the  ground  in  the  space 
between  the  table  and  the  chair.  Without  appearing 
disturbed  by  the  incident,  she  lifted  herself  and  bowed 
in  answer  to  the  young  man's  salutation,  but  in  a 
manner  so  imperceptible  that  she  scarcely  rose  from 
her  chair,  in  which  she  remained  ensconced.  She 
leaned  forward  to  stir  the  fire;  then  she  stooped, 
picked  up  a  glove  which  she  negligently  put  upon  her 
left  hand,  while  with  her  right,  which  was  white, 
almost  transparent,  without  rings,  the  fingers  taper- 
ing and  slender  with  rosy  nails  that  formed  a  perfect 
oval,  she  pointed  to  a  chair  as  if  to  tell  Gaston  to 
be  seated.  When  her  unknown  guest  had  taken  the 
chair,  she  turned  her  head  to  him  with  an  interroga- 
tive and  coquettish  motion,  the  delicate  charm  of 
which  is  not  to  be  described;  it  belongs  to  the  class 
of  those  courteous  intentions,  those  gracious  though 


TJie  Deserted  Woman,  531 

formal  gestures,  given  by  early  education  and  the 
constant  habit  of  doing  all  things  in  good  taste. 
These  multiplied  movements  succeeded  each  other 
rapidly,  without  jerk  or  brusqueness;  and  they 
charmed  Gaston  by  that  mingling  of  precision  and 
freedom  which  a  pretty  woman  adds  to  the  aristo- 
cratic manners  of  the  highest  company. 

Madame  de  Beauseant  contrasted  too  vividly  with 
the  automatons  among  whom  he  had  lived  during  his 
last  two  months  of  exile  in  the  depths  of  Normandy 
not  to  personify  to  his  mind  the  poesy  of  his  dreams. 
Neither  could  he  compare  her  perfections  with  those 
he  had  formerly  admired.  In  presence  of  this  woman 
and  in  this  salon,  furnished  like  those  of  the  Fau- 
bourg Saint-Germain,  full  of  the  rich  nothings  that 
lie  about  on  tables  with  flowers  and  books,  he  felt 
himself  back  in  Paris.  He  trod  the  very  carpets  of 
Paris ;  he  saw  once  more  the  distinguished  type,  the 
fragile  form,  of  the  true  Parisian  woman,  her  exqui- 
site grace,  and  her  negligence  of  all  sought-for  effects, 
which  do  so  much  to  mar  the  women  of  the  provinces. 

Madame  la  Vicomtesse  de  Beauseant  was  blond, 
white  as  a  blonde,  but  with  brown  eyes.  She  pre- 
sented her  brow  nobly,  the  brow  of  a  fallen  angel, 
proud  of  her  fault  and  asking  no  pardon  for  it.  Her 
hair,  very  abundant  and  braided  high  upon  the  smooth 
bands  which  followed  the  broad  curves  of  the  fore- 
head, added  still  further  to  the  majesty  of  her  head. 
Imagination  could  see  in  the  spirals  of  that  golden 
hair  the  ducal  coronet  of  Bourgogne ;  and  in  the  bril- 
liant eyes  of  this  great  lady  the  courage  of  her  house, 
the  courage  of  a  woman  strong  only  in  repulsing  dis- 


532  The  Deserted  Woinan, 

dain  and  audacity,  but  full  of  tenderness  for  all  gentle 
feelings.  The  outline  of  her  little  head,  admirably 
poised  upon  a  long  white  throat,  the  features  of  her 
delicate  face,  her  slightly  parted  lips,  and  her  mobile 
countenance  wore  an  expression  of  exquisite  pru- 
dence, a  tinge  of  affected  satire,  which  bore  some  re- 
semblance to  slyness  and  superciliousness.  It  was 
difficult  not  to  forgive  her  for  those  two  feminine  sins 
in  thinking  of  her  misfortunes,  of  the  passion  which 
had  almost  cost  her  life,  and  was  visibly  attested  by 
the  furrows  that  the  slightest  movement  traced  upon 
her  brow,  and  by  the  sorrowful  eloquence  of  her 
beautiful  eyes,  that  were  often  raised  to  heaven.  Was 
it  not  an  imposing  spectacle  (still  further  magnified 
by  reflection)  to  see  in  that  vast,  silent  salon  this 
woman,  parted  from  her  kind,  who  for  three  years 
had  lived  in  the  depths  of  that  valley,  far  from  the 
city,  alone  with  her  memories  of  a  brilliant,  happy, 
ardent  youth,  once  so  filled  with  fetes  and  homage, 
now  given  over  to  the  horrors  of  nothingness?  The 
smile  of  this  woman  proclaimed  a  high  sense  of  her 
own  value.  Neither  mother  nor  wife,  repulsed  by 
society,  betrayed  by  the  only  heart  that  could  make 
her  own  beat  without  shame,  finding  in  no  sentiment 
the  needed  support  to  her  tottering  spirit,  she  was 
driven  to  seek  her  strength  within  herself,  to  live 
upon  her  own  life,  and  have  no  other  hope  than  that 
of  a  deserted  woman,  namely:  to  await  death,  and 
hasten  its  slowness,  despite  the  days  of  youth  and 
beauty  that  still  remained  to  her.  To  feel  herself 
made  for  happiness,  and  die  without  receiving  it, 
without  giving  it  —  a  woman!    What  griefs  I 


The  Deserted  WomarL  533 

M.  de  Nueil  made  these  reflections  with  the  ra- 
pidity of  lightning,  and  felt  ashamed  of  his  own 
individual  person  in  presence  of  the  greatest  poesy 
that  can  enfold  a  woman.  Under  the  spell  of  that 
ti'iple  glow  of  beauty,  misfortunes,  and  nobleness,  he 
remained  almost  stunned,  dreaming,  admiring  the 
woman  before  him,  but  finding  nothing  to  say  to 
her. 

Madame  de  Beaus^ant,  who  was  doubtless  not  dis- 
pleased by  this  attitude,  made  a  gentle  but  imperative 
gesture  of  the  hand;  then,  recalling  a  smile  to  her 
pale  lips,  as  if  to  obey  the  gracious  rules  of  her  sex, 
she  said :  — 

"  M.  de  Champignelles  has  informed  me,  monsieur, 
of  the  message  which  you  have  so  courteously  taken 
upon  yourself  to  bring  me.     Is  it  from  —  ?  " 

Hearing  that  terrible  speech  Gaston  felt  the  ab- 
surdity of  his  position,  the  bad  taste,  the  disloyalty 
of  his  proceeding  towards  a  woman  so  noble  and  so 
unhappy.  He  blushed.  His  glance,  full  of  many 
thoughts,  became  agitated;  then  suddenly,  with  that 
strength  which  young  people  are  able  to  get  out  of 
the  consciousness  of  their  faults,  he  recovered  him- 
self. Interrupting  Madame  de  Beauseant,  not  with- 
out making  a  submissive  gesture,  he  said  in  a  voice 
of  emotion:  — 

*'  Madame,  I  do  not  deserve  the  happiness  of  seeing 
you ;  I  have  unworthily  deceived  you.  The  sentiment 
I  have  obeyed,  great  as  it  was,  does  not  excuse  the 
miserable  subterfuge  which  I  used  to  obtain  an  en- 
trance here.  But,  madame,  if  you  will  have  the 
goodness  to  allow  me  to  tell  you  —  " 


634  The  Deserted   Woman, 

The  vicomtesse  cast  a  haughty  look  of  contempt 
upon  him,  raised  her  hand  to  the  bell,  and  rang  it, 
and  when  the  footman  came  she  said,  looking  at  the 
young  man  with  dignity:  — 

"  Jacques,  show  this  gentleman  out." 

She  rose  proudly,  bowed  to  Gaston,  and  stooped  to 
pick  up  her  book.  Her  movements  were  as  stiff  and  cold 
as  those  with  which  she  had  greeted  him  were  softly 
elegant  and  gracious.  M.  de  Nueil  had  risen,  but  he 
remained  standing.  Madame  de  Beauseant  flung  him 
another  look  as  if  to  say:  *' Well,  are  you  not  going?  " 

That  look  was  full  of  such  stinging  sarcasm  that 
Gaston  turned  pale  like  a  person  about  to  swoon. 
Tears  rose  in  his  eyes,  but  he  restrained  them,  dry- 
ing them  in  hot  shame  and  regret  as  he  looked  at 
Madame  de  Beauseant  with  a  sort  of  pride  which 
expressed  in  the  same  glance  resignation  and  a  cer- 
tain consciousness  of  his  own  value.  The  vicomtesse 
had  the  right  to  punish  him,  but  ought  she  to  have 
done  so?  Then  he  went  out.  As  he  crossed  the 
antechamber,  the  perspicacity  of  his  mind  and  his 
intelligence,  sharpened  by  passion,  made  him  see  the 
danger  of  his  position. 

"  If  I  leave  this  house  now,"  he  said  to  himself,  *'  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  re-enter  it ;  I  shall  always  be 
despised  by  the  vicomtesse.  It  is  impossible  that  a 
woman  —  and  she  is  indeed  a  woman!  —  should  not 
divine  the  love  she  inspires;  she  may  feel  a  vague 
and  involuntary  regret  for  having  so  brusquely  dis- 
missed me,  but  she  will  not,  she  ought  not  to,  she 
never  would,  revoke  her  decision;  it  is  for  me  to 
understand  her." 


The  Deserted  Woman*  535 

At  this  reflection,  Gaston  stopped  short  on  the  por- 
tico, made  an  abrupt  exclamation,  and  said:  — 

*'  I  have  forgotten  something." 

Then  he  returned  to  the  salon,  followed  by  the  foot- 
man, who,  full  of  respect  for  the  baron  and  the  sacred 
claims  of  property,  was  completely  deceived  by  the 
naive  tone  in  which  this  remark  was  made.  Gaston 
entered  the  salon  softly,  without  being  announced. 
When  the  vicomtesse,  thinking  perhaps  that  the  in- 
truder was  the  footman,  raised  her  head  she  saw  M. 
de  Nueil  standing  before  her. 

*'  Jacques  showed  me  out,"  he  said,  smiling. 

That  smile,  full  of  a  half-sad  grace,  took  from  his 
words  what  might  otherwise  have  seemed  jesting,  and 
the  accent  with  which  he  said  thera  went  to  the  soul. 

Madame  de  Beauseant  was  disarmed. 

*'  Well,  then,  sit  down,"  she  said. 

Gaston  seized  a  chair  with  an  eager  movement. 
His  eyes,  animated  with  joy,  cast  so  vivid  a  light 
that  the  vicomtesse,  unable  to  support  that  young 
glance,  lowered  her  eyes  on  her  book  and  tasted  the 
pleasure,  always  fresh,  of  being  to  a  man  the  prin- 
ciple of  his  happiness,  —  an  imperishable  sentiment 
in  woman.  Besides  which,  Madame  de  Beauseant  had 
been  understood.  A  woman  is  always  thankful 
to  encounter  a  man  who  is  able  to  perceive  the 
caprices,  so  logical,  of  her  heart;  who  compre- 
hends the  apparently  contradictory  ways  of  her 
mind,  the  fleeting  resei'ves  of  her  sensations,  now 
timid,  now  bold, — astonishing  mixture  of  coquetry 
and  artlessness. 

"  Madame! "  cried  Gaston,  softly,  **  you  know  my 


536  The  Deserted   Woman. 

fault,  but  you  are  ignorant  of  my  crimes.  If  you 
knew  with  what  happiness  I  have  —  " 

*'Ah!  take  care,"  she  said,  lifting  one  of  her  fin- 
gers with  a  mysterious  air  to  the  level  of  her  nose, 
which  she  lightly  touched,  while,  with  the  other  hand 
she  made  the  gesture  of  ringing  the  bell. 

That  pretty  motion,  that  graceful  threat  created,  no 
doubt,  a  sad  thought,  a  recollection  of  her  happy  life, 
of  the  time  when  she  might  be  all  charm  and  fascina- 
tion, when  happiness  justified  the  caprices  of  her 
mind  and  gave  attraction  to  the  slightest  movements 
of  her  body.  The  lines  upon  her  forehead  gathered 
between  her  eyebrows ;  her  face,  softly  lighted  by  the 
candles,  took  a  gloomy  expression ;  she  looked  at  M. 
de  Nueil  with  a  gravity  devoid  of  harshness,  and  said 
in  the  tone  of  a  woman  profoundly  penetrated  with 
the  meaning  of  her  own  words :  — 

"All  this  is  very  ridiculous.  Time  was,  monsieur, 
when  I  had  the  right  to  be  thoughtlessly  gay,  when  I 
could  have  laughed  with  you  and  received  you  fear- 
lessly; but  to-day  my  life  is  changed,  I  am  no  longer 
mistress  of  my  actions,  I  am  forced  to  reflect  upon 
them.  To  what  sentiment  do  I  owe  your  visit?  Is 
it  curiosity  ?  If  so,  I  am  made  to  pay  dear  for  a  mo- 
ment's gratification.  Is  it  that  you  already  love  pas- 
sionately a  woman  universally  calumniated,  whom  you 
have  never  seen  ?  In  that  case,  your  sentiments  are 
founded  on  a  low  opinion  of  me,  on  a  wrong-doing  to 
which  chance  has  given  celebrity." 

She  threw  her  book  upon  the  table  in  disgust. 

"What!"  she  continued,  with  a  terrible  look  at 
GastoD.     "  Because  I  have  once  been  weak  does  the 


The  Deserted   Woman.  537 

world  expect  me  to  be  so  always?  This  is  horrible, 
degrading.  Do  you  come  here  to  pity  me?  You  are 
very  young  to  sympathize  with  soitows  of  the  heart. 
Learn,  monsieur,  that  I  prefer  contempt  to  pity;  I 
will  not  submit  to  the  compassion  of  any  one." 

A  moment's  silence  followed,  and  then  she  resumed, 
turning  her  head  to  him  with  a  sad  and  gentle  air: 

"  You  see,  monsieur,  that  whatever  may  be  the  sen- 
timent which  has  brought  you  so  heedlessly  into  my 
seclusion,  it  is  wounding  to  me.  You  are  too  young 
to  be  entirely  devoid  of  kind  feeling;  you  must  cer- 
tainly feel  the  impropriety  of  your  action.  I  forgive 
it,  and  I  speak  without  bitterness.  You  will  not  re- 
turn here,  will  you?  I  beg  you  where  I  could  com- 
mand you.  If  you  pay  me  another  visit  it  will  not 
be  in  your  power  or  mine  to  prevent  the  whole  town 
from  believing  that  you  are  my  lover,  and  you  will 
add  to  all  my  other  griefs  a  very  great  grief.  That 
is  not  your  wish,  I  think." 

She  ceased  speaking,  and  looked  at  him  with  an  air 
of  such  true  dignity  that  it  confounded  him. 

"  I  have  done  wrong,  madame,"  he  said  in  a  tone 
of  conviction;  "  but  ardent  feelings,  want  of  reflec- 
tion, a  keen  desire  for  happiness,  are  virtues  and 
defects  both  at  my  age.  I  now  perceive  that  I  ought 
not  to  have  sought  to  see  you,  and  yet  my  desire  was 
very  natural." 

He  tried  to  tell  her,  but  with  more  sentiment  than 
sense,  the  sufferings  to  which  his  enforced  exile  had 
condemned  him.  He  pictured  the  state  of  a  young 
man  whose  ardour  burned  without  fuel,  making  him 
believe  that  he  was  worthy  of  being  tenderly  loved, 


638  The  Deserted   Woinan, 

who  yet  had  never  known  the  delights  of  love  inspired 
by  a  young  and  beautiful  woman  of  good  taste  and 
delicacy.  He  explained  his  disregard  of  conventionaJ 
propriety  without  seeking  to  justify  it.  He  flattered 
Madame  de  Beauseant  by  showing  her  that  she  real- 
ized for  him  the  type  of  mistress  incessantly  but 
vainly  demanded  by  most  young  men.  Then,  speak- 
ing of  his  early  morning  walks  around  Courcelles,  of 
the  vagabond  ideas  that  possessed  him  as  he  gazed  at 
the  villa,  to  which,  at  last,  he  had  found  a  way,  he 
excited  that  indefinable  indulgence  which  a  woman 
always  finds  in  her  heart  for  the  follies  she  inspires. 
He  rang  the  tones  of  a  passionate  voice  in  this  cold 
solitude,  into  which  he  brought  the  warm  aspirations 
of  his  youth  and  charms  of  mind,  developed  by  a 
careful  education.  Madame  de  Beauseant  had  been 
too  long  deprived  of  the  emotions  given  by  a  delicate 
expression  of  true  feeling  not  to  feel  the  delight  of 
them  keenly.  She  could  not  keep  herself  from  look- 
ing at  the  expressive  face  of  M.  de  Nueil,  or  from 
admiring  the  beautiful  confidence  of  a  soul  which  has 
not  yet  been  torn  by  cruel  knowledge  of  the  ways  of 
the  world,  or  consumed  by  the  ceaseless  calculation 
of  ambition  or  vanity.  Gaston  was  youth  in  the 
flower  of  its  age,  appearing  as  a  man  of  character, 
as  yet  imperceptive  of  his  highest  destinies. 

Thus  they  both  made,  unknown  to  each  other,  most 
dangerous  reflections  for  their  peace  of  mind,  mutu- 
ally endeavouring  to  conceal  them.  M.  de  Nueil 
recognized  in  the  vicomtesse  one  of  those  rare  women 
who  are  always  victims  to  their  own  perfections  and 
their   inextinguishable    tenderness;    whose    graceful 


The  Deserted  Woman.  539 

"beauty  is  their  least  charm  when  they  have  once  ac- 
corded access  to  their  soul,  in  which  sentiments  are 
infinite,  and  where  all  is  good,  where  the  instinct  of 
the  beautiful  unites  with  the  most  varied  expressions 
of  love  to  purify  its  joys  and  make  them  almost  sa- 
cred, —  wonderful  secret  of  womanhood,  an  exquisite 
gift,  not  often  granted  by  nature. 

On  her  side,  the  vicomtesse,  listening  to  the  truth- 
ful tones  in  which  Gaston  told  her  of  the  troubles  of 
his  youth,  divined  the  sufferings  imposed  by  timidity 
on  children  of  larger  growth  when  study  has  kept  them 
safe  from  the  corruption  and  contagion  of  men  of  the 
world,  whose  argumentative  experience  corrodes  the 
fine  qualities  of  youth.  She  found  in  him  the  dream 
of  every  woman  —  a  man  in  whom  there  did  not  yet 
exist  that  egotism  of  family  and  fortune,  nor  that 
selfishness  which  ends  by  killing,  after  their  first  trans- 
ports, devotion,  honour,  abnegation,  self-respect,  — 
flowers  of  the  soul  so  early  wilted,  which  at  the  start 
enrich  existence  with  delicate  though  strong  emotions, 
and  reveal  in  man  an  honest  heart.  Once  launched 
upon  the  vast  spaces  of  sentiment,  they  soon  went  far 
in  theory;  each  sounded  the  depths  of  the  other's 
soul,  seeking  for  the  truth  of  its  expression.  This 
examination,  unconscious  in  Gaston,  was  premedi- 
tated in  Madame  de  Beauseant.  Using  her  natural 
and  acquired  slyness  she  expressed,  without  doing 
injustice  to  herself,  opinions  quite  the  contrary  of 
those  she  held,  in  order  to  discover  those  of  M.  de 
Nueil.  She  was  so  witty,  so  gracious,  so  completely 
herself  with  a  young  man  who  did  not  rouse  her  dis- 
trust, and  whom  she  believed   she  should   never  see 


640  The  Deserted  Woman* 

again,  that  Gaston  exclaimed  naively  after  one  of  her 
charming  remarks :  — 

"Oh,  madame!  how  could  any  man  desert  you?" 

Madame  de  Beauseaut  was  silent.  Gaston  red- 
dened; he  supposed  he  had  offended  her.  But  in 
truth  she  was  overcome  by  the  first  deep  and  true 
pleasure  she  had  felt  since  the  day  of  her  sorrow. 
The  cleverest  roue  could  not  have  made  by  employ- 
ing art  the  progress  that  M.  de  Nueil  owed  to  this 
cry  from  his  soul.  Such  a  judgment,  wrung  from  the 
purity  of  a  young  man,  made  her  innocent  in  her  own 
eyes,  condemned  society,  blamed  the  man  who  had 
deserted  her,  and  justified  the  solitude  in  which  she 
had  come  to  languish.  Worldly  absolution,  tender 
sympathies,  social  esteem,  so  much  desired,  so  cruelly 
refused,  in  short,  all  her  most  secret  cravings  were 
accomplished  by  that  one  exclamation,  embellished 
still  further  by  gentle  flatteries  of  the  heart  and  the 
admiration  that  is  always  so  eagerly  sought  by  women. 
She  was  understood  and  comprehended.  M.  de  Nueil 
gave  her  naturally  an  opportunity  to  rise  above  her 
fall.     She  looked  at  the  clock. 

"Oh,  madame!"  cried  Gaston,  "  do  not  punish 
my  thoughtlessness.  If  you  grant  me  but  this  one 
evening,  deign  not  to  shorten  it." 

She  smiled  at  the  compliment. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "as  we  shall  never  see  each 
other  again,  a  few  moments  more  or  less  cannot  mat- 
ter. If  I  had  pleased  you  it  would  have  been  a  great 
misfortune." 

"  A  misfortune  that  has  happened,"  he  answered 
sadly. 


The  Deserted   Woman,  541 

**  Do  not  say  that!"  she  replied,  gravely.  "Were 
I  in  any  other  position  I  would  gladly  receive  you. 
I  shall  speak  to  you  without  evasion,  and  you  will 
comprehend  why  1  cannot,  and  why  I  ought  not  to 
receive  you.  I  think  you  have  too  great  a  soul  not 
to  feel  that  if  I  were  suspected  of  a  second  weakness 
I  should  become  in  the  eyes  of  every  one  a  contemp- 
tible and  vulgar  woman ;  I  should  be  like  other  women. 
A  pure  and  spotless  life  will,  on  the  contrary,  put  my 
character  into  relief.  I  am  too  proud  not  to  attempt 
to  live  in  society  as  a  being  apart,  victim  to  laws  in 
my  marriage,  victim  to  man  in  my  love.  If  I  did 
not  remain  faithful  to  my  position,  I  should  deserve 
the  blame  that  crushes  me,  and  I  should  lose  my  own 
esteem.  I  have  not  had  the  lofty  social  virtue  to  be- 
long to  a  man  I  did  not  love.  I  have  broken,  in  spite 
of  the  laws,  the  bonds  of  marriage;  but  to  me  mar- 
riage was  equivalent  to  death.  I  wished  to  live.  If 
1  had  been  a  mother,  perhaps  I  should  have  found 
strength  to  endure  the  torture  of  a  marriage  forced 
upon  me  by  conventions.  At  eighteen  we  know  noth- 
ing, poor  young  girls,  of  what  we  are  made  to  do.  I 
have  violated  the  laws  of  the  world,  and  the  world  has 
punished  me;  we  were  just,  the  one  to  the  other.  I 
sought  happiness.  Is  it  not  a  law  of  our  nature  to  be 
happy  ?  I  was  young,  I  was  beautiful  —  I  thought  I 
met  a  being  who  was  as  loving  as  he  was  impassioned. 
I  was  loved  deeply  for  a  moment  I  " 

She  paused, 

*'  I  think,"  she  resumed,  "  that  a  man  ought  never 
to  abandon  a  woman  in  the  situation  in  which  I  was. 
I  was  deserted,  I  had  ceased  to  please ;  perhaps  I  was 


542  The  Deserted   Woman, 

too  loving,  too  devoted,  or  too  exactirg ;  I  know  not. 
Sorrow  has  at  last  trained  me.  After  being  an  accuser 
for  a  long,  long  time,  I  am  now  resigned  to  be  the 
only  guilty  one.  I  have  therefore  absolved  at  my 
own  expense  him  of  whom  I  believed  I  had  reason  to 
complain.  I  was  not  clever  enough  to  keep  him ;  fate 
has  harshly  punished  me  for  my  incompetence.  I 
know  only  how  to  love;  how  can  one  think  of  one's  self 
when  one  loves?  I  was  therefore  a  slave,  when  I 
ought  to  have  made  myself  a  tyrant.  Those  who 
know  me  may  condemn  me,  but  they  esteem  me.  My 
sufferings  have  taught  me  never  again  to  put  myself 
in  the  way  of  desertion.  1  do  not  understand  how  it 
is  I  still  live  after  enduring  the  eight  days  of  anguish 
that  followed  that  crisis,  the  most  dreadful  that  can 
happen  in  the  life  of  a  woman.  One  must  have  lived 
three  years  in  absolute  solitude  to  have  gathered  suffi- 
cient strength  to  speak  as  I  do  now  of  my  sorrows. 
A  death-struggle  usually  ends  in  death;  mine  was 
that  struggle  without  the  grave  to  end  it.  Oh!  I 
have  suffered,  indeed!" 

She  raised  her  beautiful  eyes  to  the  ceiling,  confid- 
ing to  it,  no  doubt,  all  that  she  could  not  tell  to  a 
stranger.  A  ceiling  is  certainly  the  gentlest,  most 
submissive,  most  complying  confidant  that  women  can 
find  on  occasions  when  they  dare  not  look  at  their 
interlocutor.  The  ceiling  of  a  boudoir  is  an  institu- 
tion. Is  it  not  a  confessional,  minus  the  priest?  At 
this  moment  Madame  de  Beauseant  was  eloquent  and 
beautiful;  I  would  say  coquettish  if  the  word  were 
not  too  strong.  In  rendering  justice  to  herself,  in 
potting  between  herself  and  love  the  highest  barriers, 


The  Deserted  Woman.  543 

she  spurred  all  the  feelings  of  the  man;  and  the  more 
she  raised  her  nature,  the  better  she  offered  it  to  his 
sight.  At  the  end  she  lowered  her  eyes  to  Gaston, 
after  taking  from  them  the  too  affecting  expression 
given  to  them  by  the  memory  of  her  sufferings. 

*'  You  will  admit  that  I  ought  to  remain  solitary 
and  cold,"  she  said  calmly. 

M.  de  Nueil  felt  a  violent  desire  to  fall  at  the  feet 
of  this  woman,  sublime  at  this  moment  with  reason 
and  unreason;  but  he  feared  her  ridicule;  he  repressed 
his  enthusiasm  and  his  thoughts;  he  felt  both  the  fear 
of  not  being  able  to  express  them  well,  and  a  terror 
of  some  terrible  rebuff  or  sarcasm,  apprehension  of 
which  so  often  freezes  the  souls  of  ardent  beings. 
The  reaction  of  feelings  thus  repressed  at  the  moment 
when  they  were  about  to  gush  from  his  heart  gave 
him  that  bitter  pain  known  to  shy  and  ambitious  per- 
sons when  forced  to  swallow  their  own  desires.  He 
could  not,  however,  help  breaking  the  silence  by  say- 
ing in  a  trembling  voice :  — 

*'  Permit  me,  madame,  to  give  way  to  one  of  the 
greatest  emotions  of  my  life  by  avowing  to  you  what 
you  have  made  me  feel.  You  enlarge  my  heart!  I 
feel  within  me  a  desire  to  spend  my  life  in  making 
you  forget  your  griefs,  in  loving  you  for  all  those 
who  have  hated  or  wounded  you.  But  this  is  a  sud- 
den effusion  of  the  heart,  which  to-day  nothing  jus- 
tifies, and  which  I  ought  —  " 

''Enough,  monsieur,"  said  Madame  de  Beauseant; 
*'  we  are  each  of  us  going  too  far.  I  wished  to  re- 
move all  harshness  from  the  refusal  I  am  obliged  to 
give;  I  wished  to  explain  its  mournful  reasons,  not 


644  The  Deserted   Woman, 

to  attract  yonr  homage.  Coquetry  is  becoming  to 
none  but  happy  women.  Believe  me,  it  is  better  we 
should  remain  strangers  to  each  other.  Later,  you 
will  know  that  it  is  better  not  to  form  ties  that  must 
eventually  be  broken." 

She  sighed  slightly,  and  her  brow  wrinkled,  only 
to  renew  its  purity  a  moment  later. 

"  What  suffering  for  a  woman,"  she  resumed,  "not 
to  be  able  to  follow  the  man  she  loves  through  all  the 
phases  of  his  life!  And  that  deep  grief,  must  it  nox 
echo  horribly  in  the  heart  of  that  man,  if  indeed  he 
loves  her  well  ?    A  double  grief,  is  it  not?  " 

A  moment's  silence,  and  then  she  rose  as  if  to 
make  her  guest  rise,  saying  with  a  smile:  — 

"  You  did  not  expect,  in  coming  to  Courcelles,  to 
hear  a  sermon,  did  you  ?" 

Gaston  felt  himself  at  this  moment  farther  from 
this  extraordinary  woman  than  at  the  moment  he  first 
approached  her.  Attributing  the  charm  of  this  de- 
lightful hour  to  the  coquetry  of  the  mistress  of  the 
salon,  desirous  of  displaying  her  mind,  he  bowed 
coldly  to  the  vicomtesse  and  left  the  house  in  de- 
spair. As  he  went  along  he  tried  to  disentangle  the 
true  character  of  this  creature,  supple,  yet  hard  as 
a  steel  spring;  but  he  had  seen  her  take  so  many 
aspects,  so  many  shades,  that  he  found  it  impossible 
to  form  any  real  judgment  upon  her.  Besides,  the 
intonations  of  her  voice  rang  in  his  ears,  and  the 
recollection  gave  such  charm  to  her  gestures,  to 
the  motions  of  her  head,  to  the  play  of  her  eyes  that 
the  more  his  thoughts  examined  her,  the  more  he  wa8 
in  love.     To  him,  her  beauty  shone  the  brighter  ill 


The  Deserted   Woman,  645 

the  shadows ;  the  impressions  he  received  of  it  woke 
again,  awakened  by  one  another,  seducing  him  anew 
by  revealing  graces  of  womanhood  and  intellect  not 
perceived  at  first.  He  fell  into  one  of  those  vagabond 
meditations  during  which  the  most  lucid  thoughts 
struggle  together  and  cast  the  soul  into  a  species  of 
short  madness.  One  must  be  young  to  reveal  and  to 
comprehend  the  secret  of  dithyrambics  of  this  kind, 
in  which  the  heart,  assailed  by  the  wisest  and  by  the 
craziest  ideas,  yields  to  whichever  strikes  it  last,  a 
thought  of  hope  or  of  despair,  at  the  will  of  some 
unknown  power.  At  twenty-three  years  of  age  a  man 
is  almost  always  ruled  by  a  sentiment  of  modesty; 
the  shyness,  the  timidity  of  a  young  girl  agitate  him; 
he  is  afraid  of  expressing  ill  his  love,  he  sees  noth- 
ing but  difficulties,  and  stands  in  awe  of  them;  he 
trembles  in  fear  that  he  may  not  please;  he  would  be 
bold  if  he  did  not  love  so  much;  the  more  he  feels  the 
value  of  happiness,  the  less  he  believes  that  his  mis- 
tress will  easily  grant  it  to  him.  Sometimes  he  yields 
himself  up  too  entirely  to  his  pleasure,  and  fears  to  be 
unable  to  give  any;  or  if,  unfortunately,  his  idol  is 
imposing  he  adores  her  in  secret  and  from  afar;  if  his 
love  is  not  divined,  it  expires.  Often  this  precocious 
passion,  dead  in  the  young  heart,  remains  there, 
brilliant  with  illusions.  What  man  has  not  several 
of  these  virgin  memories,  which,  later,  awake,  ever 
gracious,  bringing  the  image  of  a  perfect  joy?  memo- 
ries like  children,  lost  in  the  flower  of  their  age,  whose 
parents  have  known  nothing  but  their  smiles? 

M.  de  Nueil  returned,  therefore,  from  Courcelles,  a 
prey  to  feelings  big  with  contradictory  resolutions. 

35 


546  The  Deserted  Woman, 

Madame  de  Beauseant  had  become  to  him  already  the 
condition  of  his  existence;  he  preferred  to  die  than  to 
live  without  her.  Still  juvenile  enough  to  feel  those 
cruel  fascinations  which  a  perfect  woman  exercises 
over  a  fresh  and  passionate  soul,  he  must  have  passed 
one  of  those  storm -tossed  nights  during  which  young 
men  fly  mentally  from  happiness  to  suicide,  from  sui- 
cide to  happiness,  exhausting  a  whole  lifetime  of  joy 
and  falling  asleep  powerless.  Fatal  nights,  from 
which  the  greatest  danger  is  to  waken  a  philosopher. 
Too  thoroughly  in  love  to  sleep,  M.  de  Nueil  rose  and 
began  to  write  letters,  none  of  which  satisfying  him, 
he  burned  them  all. 

The  next  day  he  went  to  make  a  turn  round  the 
little  inclosure  of  Courcelles,  but  only  towards  night- 
fall, fearing  lest  the  vicomtesse  should  see  him.  The 
feeling  he  was  then  obeying  belongs  to  a  characteristic 
of  the  soul  so  mysterious  that  one  must  still  be  a 
young  man  in  a  like  position  to  comprehend  its  mute 
delights  and  whimsicalities,  —  all  of  which  make  those 
persons  fortunate  enough  to  see  only  the  practical  side 
of  life  shrug  their  shoulders.  After  painful  hesitation 
Gaston  wrote  to  Madame  de  Beauseant  the  following 
letter,  which  may  pass  for  a  model  of  the  phraseology 
special  to  lovers,  and  can  be  compared  to  the  draw- 
ings made  in  secret  by  children  to  surprise  their 
parents,  —  works  of  art  detestable  to  all  except  the 
parents  who  receive  them. 

"  Madame,  —  You  exercise  so  great  an  influence 
over  my  heart,  my  soul,  my  person,  that  to-day  my  fate 
hangs  wholly  upon  you.     Do  not  fling  my  letter  into 


The  Deserted  Woman,  547 

the  fire.  Be  sufficiently  benevolent  to  read  it.  Per- 
haps you  will  pardon  my  first  words  when  you  per- 
ceive that  they  are  not  a  selfish  or  vulgar  declaration, 
but  the  expression  of  a  natural  fact. 

"  Perhaps  you  will  be  touched  by  the  modesty  of  my 
prayers,  by  the  resignation  that  a  sense  of  my  inferi- 
ority inspires,  by  the  influence  of  your  decision  on 
my  life.  At  my  age,  madame,  I  know  only  how  to 
love;  I  am  utterly  ignorant  of  what  will  please  a 
woman  and  win  her;  but  I  feel  for  her  in  my  heart 
intoxicating  adorations.  I  am  irresistibly  attracted 
to  you  by  the  immense  pleasure  you  make  me  feel ;  I 
think  of  you  with  all  the  egoism  which  draws  us  in- 
stinctively where  for  us  is  vital  warmth.  I  do  not 
think  myself  worthy  of  you.  No,  it  seems  to  me  im- 
possible that  I,  young,  ignorant,  timid,  should  bring 
to  you  one-millionth  part  of  the  happiness  that  I 
breathe  in  as  I  listen  to  you,  as  I  see  you.  You  are 
to  me  the  only  woman  existing  in  the  world.  Unable 
to  conceive  of  life  without  you  I  have  resolved  to 
leave  France  and  risk  my  existence  until  I  lose  it  in 
some  impossible  enterprise,  in  the  Indies,  in  Africa, 
I  know  not  where.  Must  I  not  combat  a  boundless 
love  with  something  that  is  allied  to  infinity? 

**  But  if  you  would  have  me  hope,  not  to  be  wholly 
yours,  but  to  obtain  your  friendship,  I  shall  remain. 
Permit  me  to  spend  near  you  —  rarely  if  you  so  insist 
—  a  few  hours  like  those  I  have  just  obtained.  That 
slender  happiness,  the  keon  enjoyments  of  which  can 
be  denied  me  at  my  first  too  ardent  words,  will  suffice 
to  make  me  endure  the  pulsations  of  my  blood.  Do 
I  presume  too  far  upon  your  generosity  when  I  en- 


548  The  Deserted   Woman, 

treat  you  to  permit  an  intercourse  in  which  all  the 
profit  is  to  me  alone?  You  can  surely  show  to  the 
world  to  which  you  sacrifice  so  much  that  I  am  noth- 
ing to  you.  You,  so  brilliant  and  so  proud,  what  can 
you  fear? 

"  I  would  that  I  could  open  my  heart  to  you,  in 
order  to  convince  you  that  my  humble  petition  covers 
no  secret  thought.  I  should  not  have  told  you  that  my 
love  is  boundless  in  asking  you  to  grant  me  friend- 
ship did  I  have  any  hope  that  you  would  share  the 
sentiment  so  deeply  sunken  in  my  soul.  No,  I  shall 
ever  be,  near  you,  that  which  you  desire  me  to  be, 
provided  I  may  be  there.  If  you  refuse  me,  and  you 
may,  I  shall  not  murmur,  I  shall  depart.  If,  later, 
any  other  woman  than  you  should  enter  my  life,  you 
will  have  acted  rightly;  but  if  I  die,  faithful  to  my 
love,  you  will  perhaps  feel  some  regret.  The  hope  of 
thus  causing  you  regret  will  soothe  my  anguish  —  it 
will  be  the  only  vengeance  of  my  rejected  heart." 

It  is  necessary  not  to  be  ignorant  of  any  of  the 
extravagant  sorrows  of  youth,  and  also  to  have 
climbed  upon  all  the  white  and  double-winged  chi- 
meras which  offer  their  feminine  crupper  to  burning 
imaginations,  in  order  to  understand  the  torture  to 
which  Gaston  de  Nueil  was  a  prey  when  he  knew  that 
his  first  ultimatum  was  in  the  hands  of  the  vicomtesse. 
He  imagined  her  cold,  scornful,  jesting  at  his  love, 
like  those  who  no  longer  believe  in  the  tender  pas- 
sion. He  would  gladly  have  recalled  his  letter,  — 
he  thought  it  absurd;  there  came  into  his  mind  a 
thousand  and  one  ideas  that  were  infinitely  better, 


The  Deserted   Woman.  649 

all  of  them  more  touching  than  his  stiff  sentences, 
those  cursed,  far-fetched,  sophistical,  pretentious  sen- 
tences, but,  happily,  very  ill-punctuated  and  written 
askew.  He  tried  not  to  think,  not  to  feel;  but  he  did 
think,  he  felt,  he  suffered.  If  he  had  been  thirty 
years  old  he  would  have  made  himself  drunk ;  but  the 
still  artless  young  fellow  knew  nothing  of  the  re- 
sources of  opium  or  the  other  expedients  of  extreme 
civilization.  He  had  not  at  his  elbow  one  of  those 
good  Parisian  friends  who  know  so  well  how  to  say  to 
you:  PcETE,  NGN  dolet!  as  they  hold  out  a  bottle  of 
champagne,  or  carry  you  off  to  an  orgy  to  ameliorate 
the  pangs  of  uncertainty.  Excellent  friends,  always 
ruined  when  you  are  rich,  always  at  a  watering-place 
when  you  are  in  search  of  them,  always  having  just 
lost  their  last  louis  at  cards  when  you  ask  them  to 
lend  you  one,  but  always  owning  a  bad  horse  to  sell 
to  you;  yet,  after  all,  the  best  fellows  on  earth,  and 
ever  ready  to  jump  in  with  you  and  race  down  the 
steep  incline  on  which  time,  and  soul,  and  life  itself 
are  wasted. 

At  last  M.  de  Nueil  received,  from  the  hands  of 
Jacques,  a  letter  sealed  with  perfumed  wax  bearing 
the  arms  of  Bourgogne,  and  written  on  satin  paper, 
unmistakable  signs  of  a  pretty  woman.  He  rushed 
away  instantly  to  lock  himself  in  and  read  and 
re-read  her  letter. 

"  You  punish  me  very  severely,  monsieur,  both  for 
the  kindness  with  which  I  saved  you  from  the  annoy- 
ance of  a  dismissal,  and  for  the  seduction  which  gifts 
of  mind  invariably  exercise  over  me.     I  had  confi- 


650  The  Deserted  Woman* 

dence  in  the  nobleness  of  youth,  and  you  have  de- 
ceived me.  Nevertheless,  I  spoke  to  you,  if  not  with 
open  heart,  which  would  have  been  perfectly  ridicu- 
lous, at  least  with  frankness;  I  told  you  of  my  situa- 
tion in  order  to  make  your  young  soul  comprehend 
my  coldness.  The  more  you  interested  me,  the  more 
keen  is  the  pain  you  have  now  caused  me.  I  am 
naturally  tender  and  kind,  but  circumstances  render 
me  harsh.  Another  woman  would  have  burned  your 
letter  without  reading  it ;  I  have  read  it,  and  I  answer 
it.  My  reasons  will  prove  to  you  that  while  I  am  not 
insensible  to  the  expression  of  feelings  to  which, 
however  involuntarily,  I  have  given  birth,  I  am  far 
from  sharing  them,  and  my  conduct  will  show  you 
better  still  the  sincerity  of  my  soul.  Besides,  I  wish, 
for  your  good,  to  employ  the  species  of  authority 
which  you  give  me  over  your  life,  and  exercise  it, 
once  only,  in  causing  the  veil  that  now  covers  your 
eyes  to  drop. 

"  I  shall  soon  be  thirty  years  of  age,  and  you  are 
barely  twenty-two.  You  are  ignorant  yourself  of 
what  your  thoughts  may  be  when  you  reach  my  years. 
The  vows  you  take  to-day  may  seem  to  you  by  that 
time  extremely  heavy.  To-day,  I  am  willing  to  be- 
lieve, you  would  give  me  your  whole  life  without 
regret,  you  would  even  die  for  an  ephemeral  pleas- 
ure; but  at  thirty,  experience  will  have  taken  from 
you  the  strength  to  make  me  daily  sacrifices;  and  as 
for  me,  I  should  be  deeply  humiliated  to  accept  them. 
Some  day  everything  about  you,  Nature  herself,  will 
command  you  to  leave  me;  and,  as  I  have  told  you 
jilready,  I  prefer  death  to  desertion.     You  see  how 


The  Deserted  Woman.  551 

Borrow  has  taught  me  to  calculate.  I  reason,  I  have 
no  passion.  You  force  me  to  tell  you  that  I  do  not 
love  you,  that  I  ought  not,  cannot,  and  will  not  love 
you.  I  have  passed  that  moment  in  life  when  women 
yield  to  unreflecting  impulse ;  I  could  not  be  the  mis- 
tress of  whom  you  are  in  search. 

**My  consolations,  monsieur,  come  from  God,  not 
from  man.  Besides,  I  read  too  clearly  into  hearts  by 
the  sad  light  of  a  love  betrayed,  to  consent  to  the 
friendship  that  you  ask  and  that  you  offer.  You  are 
the  dupe  of  your  heart,  and  you  hope  much  more  from 
my  weakness  than  from  your  strength.  All  that  is  an 
effect  of  instinct.  I  pardon  you  this  childish  plot,  in 
which  you  are  not  yet  an  accomplice.  I  order  you, 
in  the  name  of  this  passing  love,  in  the  name  of  your 
life,  in  the  name  of  my  tranquillity,  to  remain  in  your 
own  country,  and  not  to  abandon  an  honourable  and 
noble  life  in  its  service  for  an  illusion  which  must, 
sooner  or  later,  be  extinguished. 

"Later,  when  you  have,  in  accomplishing  your  true 
destiny,  developed  all  the  sentiments  that  await  a 
man,  you  will  appreciate  my  answer,  which,  at  the 
preseilt  moment,  you  will  doubtless  accuse  of  harsh- 
ness. You  will  then  meet,  with  pleasure,  an  old 
woman  whose  friendship  will  be  sweet  and  precious 
to  you ;  it  will  not  have  been  subjected  to  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  passion  or  to  the  disenchantments  of  life; 
noble  ideas,  religious  ideas  will  have  kept  it  pure  and 
saintly. 

"Adieu,  monsieur,  obey  me;  believe  that  your  suo- 
eess  in  life  will  cast  some  pleasure  into  my  solitude, 
and  think  of  me  only  as  we  think  of  the  absent  ** 


552  The  Deserted   Woman, 

After  having  read  this  letter  Gaston  de  Nueil  wrote 
as  follows;  — 

"  Madame,  if  I  ceased  to  love  you,  and  accepted 
the  chances  which  you  propose  to  me  of  becoming  an 
ordinary  man,  I  should  deserve  my  fate  —  admit  it! 
No,  I  shall  not  obey  you,  and  I  swear  to  you  a  fidelity 
which  can  be  unbound  by  death  only.  Oh !  take  my 
life!  —  unless  you  fear  to  put  remorse  in  yours." 

When  the  servant  whom  M.  de  Nueil  had  sent  to 
Courcelles  returned,  his  master  said  to  him:  — 

"  To  whom  did  you  give  my  note?  " 

"  To  Madame  la  vicomtesse  herself  as  she  was  get- 
ting into  the  carriage  —  " 

"  To  come  into  town?  " 

"  I  think  not,  monsieur;  the  carriage  of  Madame  la 
vicomtesse  had  post-horses  to  it." 

"Ah!  then  she  is  going  on  a  journey,"  said  the 
baron. 

"  Yes,  monsieur,'*  replied  the  valet. 

Instantly  Gaston  made  his  preparations  to  follow 
Madame  de  Beauseant,  and  she  led  him  as  far  as 
Geneva  without  knowing  that  he  accompanied  her. 
Among  the  thousand  reflections  that  crowded  upon 
him  during  this  journey  the  one  that  occupied  him 
more  especially  was  this:  *'  Why  did  she  go  away ?  '* 
That  question  was  the  text  of  innumerable  supposi- 
tions, among  which  he  naturally  chose  the  most  flat- 
tering, namely:  "If  she  desires  to  love  me,  there  is 
no  doubt  that  a  woman  of  her  intelligence  would  pre- 
fer Switzerland,  where  no  one  knows  us,  to  France, 
where  she  would  meet  with  censors." 


The  Deserted  Woman*  653 

Certain  passionate  men  would  not  like  a  woman 
clever  enough  to  clioose  her  ground;  they  belong  to 
the  class  of  the  refined.  However,  there  is  nothing 
to  show  that  Gaston's  supposition  was  correct 

The  vicomtesse  hired  a  little  house  on  the  shores  of 
the  lake.  When  she  was  fully  installed,  Gaston  pre- 
sented himself  one  fine  evening  as  the  light  was  fad- 
ing. Jacques,  an  essentially  aristocratic  footman, 
showed  no  surprise  on  seeing  M.  de  Nueil,  and  an- 
nounced him  as  a  servant  accustomed  to  understand 
things.  Hearing  the  name,  and  seeing  the  young  man 
before  her,  Madame  de  Beausf^ant  let  fall  the  book 
she  was  reading;  her  surprise  gave  Gaston  the  time 
to  reach  her  and  to  say  in  a  voice  that  seemed  to  her 
delightful.  — 

**  With  what  pleasure  I  took  the  horses  that  had 
just  taken  you !  " 

To  be  so  well  obeyed  in  her  secret  desires !  Where 
is  the  woman  who  would  not  have  yielded  to  such 
happiness?  An  Italian,  one  of  those  fascinating 
creatures  whose  soul  is  at  the  antipodes  to  that  of 
a  Parisian  woman,  and  whom,  on  this  side  of  the 
Alps,  we  think  profoundly  immoral,  said  one  day  in 
reading  a  French  novel :  "  I  don't  see  why  those  poor 
lovers  spent  so  much  time  in  settling  what  ought  to 
be  the  affair  of  an  afternoon.'*  Why  should  a  nar- 
rator not  follow  the  example  of  the  kind  Italian,  and 
refrain  from  delaying  his  readers  or  his  topic.  There 
would  certainly  be  a  few  scenes  of  charming  coquetry 
to  depict,  sweet  delays  which  Madame  de  Beauseant 
preferred  to  give  to  Gaston's  happiness,  in  order  to 
fall  with  grace  like  the  virgins  of  antiquity;  perhaps, 


654  The  Deserted  Woman, 

too,  she  wished  to  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  inspiring  a 
first  love  and  of  leading  it  on  to  its  highest  expres- 
sion of  strength  and  power.  M.  de  Nueil  was  still  of 
an  age  to  be  the  dupe  of  these  caprices,  these  ma- 
noeuvres which  women  so  delight  in,  and  which  they 
prolong,  either  to  stipulate  for  conditions  or  to  in- 
crease their  power,  the  diminution  of  which  they  in- 
stinctively divine.  But  these  little  protocols  of  the 
boudoir,  less  numerous  than  those  of  the  Conference 
of  London,  hold  too  small  a  place  in  the  history  of  a 
real  passion  to  be  mentioned  here. 

Madame  de  Beauseant  and  M.  de  Nueil  lived  for 
three  years  in  the  villa  on  the  lake  of  Geneva.  They 
lived  alone,  seeing  no  one,  and  causing  no  talk  about 
them;  they  sailed  their  boat,  and  were  as  happy  as 
we  ought  all  to  be.  The  little  house  was  simple,  with 
green  blinds,  and  wide  balconies  sheltered  by  awnings, 
a  true  lover's-nest,  a  house  of  white  sofas,  silent  car- 
pets, fresh  coverings,  where  all  things  shone  with  joy. 
At  each  aud  every  window  the  lake  took  on  a  differ- 
ent aspect;  in  the  distance,  the  mountains  with  their 
vapory,  many-tinted,  fugitive  fantasies ;  above  them, 
a  beauteous  sky;  and,  before  them,  that  long  expanse 
of  capricious,  changeful  water!  All  things  seemed  to 
dream  for  those  lovers,  and  all  things  smiled  upon 
them. 

Important  interests  recalled  M.  de  Nueil  to  France : 
his  father  and  brother  were  dead;  it  was  necessary  to 
leave  Geneva.  The  pair  bought  the  little  house;  they 
would  have  liked  to  cast  down  the  mountains  and 
empty  the  lake  by  a  subterranean  current,  in  order  to 
leave  nothing  behind  them.     Madame  de  Beauseant 


The  Deserted  Woman*  555 

followed  M.  de  Nueil.  She  converted  her  fortune  and 
bought,  near  to  Manerville,  a  considerable  property 
which  adjoined  the  estates  of  M.  de  Nueil,  and  there 
they  lived  together,  Gaston  very  graciously  gave  up 
to  his  mother  the  chateau  and  the  income  of  the 
domains  of  Manerville  in  return  for  the  liberty  she 
gave  him  to  live  a  bachelor.  Madame  de  Beauseant's 
estate  was  close  to  a  little  town  in  one  of  the  loveliest 
positions  of  the  valley  of  the  Auge.  There,  the  two 
lovers  put  between  themselves  and  the  world  barriers 
that  neither  social  ideas  nor  individuals  were  able  to 
cross,  and  there  they  found  again  the  happy  days  of 
Switzerland.  For  nine  whole  years  they  enjoyed  a 
happiness  it  is  useless  to  describe;  the  end  of  this 
history  will  doubtless  make  all  souls  that  are  able  to 
comprehend  it  in  the  infinity  of  its  expressions  divine 
its  poesy  and  its  aspiration. 

Meanwhile,  M.  le  Marquis  de  Beauseant  (his  father 
and  elder  brother  being  dead),  the  husband  of  Madame 
de  Beauseant,  was  in  the  enjoyment  of  perfect  health. 
Nothing  assists  us  so  much  to  live  as  the  certainty  of 
making  others  happy  by  our  death.  Monsieur  de 
Beauseant  was  one  of  those  ironical,  stubborn  men 
who,  like  life-annuitants,  find  an  added  pleasure  to 
that  of  other  men  in  getting  up  well  and  hearty  every 
morning.  Worthy  man,  however;  a  little  methodical, 
ceremonious,  and  sufficiently  of  a  calculator  to  be  able 
to  declare  his  love  to  a  woman  as  tranquilly  as  a  foot- 
man announces  that  "Madame  is  served." 

This  little  biographical  notice  of  M.  de  Beauseant 
is  intended  to  show  how  impossible  it  was  that 
Madame  de  Beauseant  should  marry  M.  de  Nueil. 


556i  The  Deserted   Woman, 

Thus,  after  nine  years  of  happiness,  the  sweetest 
lease  a  woman  ever  signed,  M.  de  Nueil  and  Madame 
de  Beauseant  were  still  in  a  position  as  natural  and  as 
false  as  that  in  which  we  saw  them  at  the  beginning  of 
this  affair;  a  fatal  crisis,  nevertheless,  of  which  it  is 
impossible  to  give  an  idea,  though  the  lines  can  be  laid 
down  with  mathematical  correctness. 

Madame  la  Comtesse  de  Nueil,  Gaston's  mother, 
had  never  been  willing  to  meet  Madame  de  Beauseant. 
She  was  a  person  of  stiff  virtue,  who  had  very  legally 
made  the  happiness  of  M.  de  Nueil,  the  father. 
Madame  de  Beauseant  knew  perfectly  well  that  the 
honourable  dowager  was  her  enemy,  and  would  surely 
attempt  to  win  Gaston  away  from  his  anti-religioua 
ftnd  immoral  life.  She  would  gladly  have  sold  her 
property  and  returned  to  Geneva.  But  to  do  so  would 
be  showing  distrust  of  M.  de  Nueil,  and  of  that  she 
was  incapable.  Besides,  he  had  taken  a  great  liking 
for  the  estate  of  Valleroy,  where  he  was  making  great 
plantations  and  altering  the  lay  of  the  land.  It  would 
be  tearing  him  away  from  a  species  of  mechanical 
happiness  which  women  desire  for  their  husbands, 
and  even  for  their  lovers. 

Recently  a  young  lady  had  arrived  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, a  Mademoiselle  de  la  Rodiere,  about  twenty-two 
years  of  age,  with  a  fortune  of  forty  thousand  francs 
a  year.  Gaston  met  this  heiress  at  Manerville  every 
time  that  his  duty  to  his  mother  took  him  to  the 
house. 

Having  thus  placed  these  personages  like  the 
ciphers  of  a  proposition  in  arithmetic  before  the 
reader,  the  following  letter,  written  and  given  one 


The  Deserted  Woman,  657 

morning  to  Gaston,  will  explain  the  dreadful  problem 
which  for  over  a  month  Madame  de  Beauseant  had 
been  striving  to  solve :  — 

"  My  Beloved,  — to  write  to  you  while  living  heart 
to  heart,  when  nothing  parts  us,  when  our  caresses 
serve  us  often  in  place  of  language  —  is  not  this  a 
contradiction?  No,  love.  There  are  certain  things  a 
woman  cannot  say  face  to  face  with  her  lover;  the 
mere  thought  of  them  takes  away  her  voice,  drives 
the  blood  to  her  heart ;  she  is  left  without  strength, 
without  mind.  To  be  in  this  state  near  to  you  makes 
me  suffer,  and  I  am  often  in  it  I  feel  that  my  heart 
ought  to  be  all  truth  to  you ;  that  no  thought  within 
it  should  be  disguised  to  you,  not  even  the  most  fugi- 
tive; and  I  love  this  giving  of  all,  which  so  becomes 
me,  too  well  to  remain  any  longer  restrained  and  silent. 
Therefore  I  am  going  now  to  tell  you  my  distress  — 
yes,  it  is  a  distress,  an  anguish.  Listen  to  me!  and 
do  not  say  that  little  *  Ta  ta  ta '  with  which  you  silence 
my  sauciness,  and  which  I  love,  because  all  pleases 
me  from  you. 

*'  Dear  heaven-sent  husband,  let  me  tell  you  that  you 
have  effaced  all  memory  of  the  sorrows  beneath  the 
weight  of  which  I  was  so  nearly  succumbing  years 
ago.  I  have  known  love  through  you  alone.  It 
needed  the  candour  of  your  beautiful  youth,  the  purity 
of  your  great  soul,  to  satisfy  the  exactions  of  an  ex- 
acting woman.  Friend,  I  have  often  throbbed  with 
joy  in  thinking  that  during  all  these  nine  years  —  so 
rapid  yet  so  long  —  my  jealousy  has  never  once  been 
roused.     I  have  had  all  the  flowers  of  your  soul,  all 


658  The  Deserted  Woman. 

your  thoughts.  There  has  never  been  the  slightest 
cloud  upon  our  sky ;  we  have  not  known  what  a  sacri- 
fice was ;  we  have  each  obeyed  the  inspiration  of  our 
hearts.  I  have  enjoyed  a  boundless  happiness  for  a 
woman.  The  tears  upon  this  page  will  tell  you  of 
my  gratitude.  I  would  like  to  write  of  it  on  my 
knees  — 

'*  Well,  this  felicity  has  brought  me  an  anguish 
greater  than  was  that  of  desertion.  Dear,  the  heart 
of  a  woman  has  folds  within  folds ;  I  knew  not  myself 
until  to-day  the  depth  of  mine,  just  as  I  knew  not  the 
depth  of  love.  The  greatest  sorrows  that  can  assail 
us  are  light  to  bear  in  comparison  with  the  one 
thought  of  harm  to  him  we  love.  A.nd  if  we  cause  it, 
that  harm,  is  it  not  a  thing  to  die  of? 

"  There  is  the  thought  that  oppresses  me.  But  it 
drags  after  it  another  that  is  yet  more  heavy;  one 
which  degrades  the  glory  of  love,  kills  it,  makes  it  a 
humiliation  that  tarnishes  our  life  forever.  You  are 
thirty  years  old,  and  I  am  forty.  What  terrors  does 
not  this  difference  of  age  inspire  in  a  loving  woman? 
You  may,  first  involuntarily,  then  consciously,  have 
felt  the  sacrifices  you  have  made  to  me  in  renouncing 
all  the  world  for  my  sake.  You  may  have  thought, 
perhaps,  of  your  social  destiny,  of  this  marriage 
which  will  so  largely  increase  your  fortune,  of  children 
to  whom  you  can  transmit  it,  of  your  reappearance  in 
the  world  to  occupy  your  place  with  honour.  But 
those  thoughts  you  may  have  repressed,  happy  in  sac- 
rificing to  me,  without  my  knowledge,  an  heiress,  a 
fortune,  and  a  noble  future.  In  your  manly  gener- 
osity you  will  choose  to  remain  faithful  to  the  oaths 


The  Deserted  Woman*  659 

wliich  bind  us  in  the  sight  of  God  only.  My  past 
will  reappear  to  you,  and  I  shall  be  protected  by  the 
very  grief  from  which  you  drew  me  —  Shall  I  owe 
your  love  to  pity?  that  thought  is  more  horrible  to  me 
than  even  that  of  making  your  life  a  failure.  Those 
who  stab  their  mistresses  are  more  merciful  when  they 
kill  them  happy  and  innocent  in  the  glow  of  their 
illusions —  Yes,  death  is  preferable  to  these  two 
thoughts  which  for  some  time  past  have  saddened  my 
heart  secretly.  Yesterday,  when  you  said  to  me  so 
tenderly:  'What  is  the  matter?*  your  voice  made 
me  shudder.  I  thought  that,  as  usual,  you  read  my 
soul,  and  I  expected  your  confidences,  believing  that 
my  presentiments  were  just,  and  divining  the  calcula- 
tions of  your  mind. 

"  Then  it  was  that  I  remembered  certain  attentions 
which  are  habitual  to  you,  but  in  which  I  believed 
that  I  could  trace  the  sort  of  effort  by  which  men  betray 
that  their  loyalty  is  hard  to  maintain.  At  that 
moment  I  paid  dear  for  my  past  happiness;  I  felt 
that  the  treasures  of  love  were  always  sold  to  us. 
And,  in  fact,  has  not  fate  parted  us?  You  have  surely 
said  to  yourself:  '  Sooner  or  later  I  must  leave  my 
poor  Claire;  why  not  part  from  her  in  time?*  That 
sentence  has  been  written  in  your  eyes.  At  times  I 
have  left  you  to  go  and  weep  elsewhere.  These  are 
the  first  tears  that  grief  has  made  me  shed  these  ten 
years,  and  I  have  been  too  proud  to  show  them  to 
you. 

'*  But  remember,  I  do  not  blame  you.  You  are  right; 
I  ought  not  to  have  the  selfishness  to  bind  your  bril- 
liant and  long  life  to  mine  which  is  so  nearly  worn 


660  The  Deserted   Woman, 

out.  But,  if  I  am  wrong,  if  I  have  mistaken  one  of 
your  love-melancholies  for  a  thought  of  separation? 
—  Ah!  my  angel,  do  not  leave  me  in  uncertainty; 
punish  your  jealous  wife,  but  give  back  to  her  the 
consciousness  of  your  love  and  hers:  all  of  woman- 
hood is  in  that  prayer ;  for  in  that  sentiment  alone  all 
is  sanctified. 

"  Since  your  mother's  arrival  and  since  you  meet 
Mademoiselle  de  la  Rodi^re  so  frequently  at  her  house, 
I  am  a  prey  to  doubts  which  dishonour  us.  Make  me 
suffer,  but  do  not  deceive  me ;  I  wish  to  know  all,  — 
what  your  mother  says  and  what  you  think.  If  you 
have  hesitated  between  anything  and  me  I  will  give 
you  your  liberty  —  I  will  hide  my  fate  from  you;  I 
will  never  weep  before  you;  only  I  cannot  see  you 
more —     Oh!  I  stop,  my  heart  is  breaking. 

"  I  have  sat  here  gloomy  and  stupid  for  several 
moments.  Friend,  I  can  have  no  pride  with  you, 
you  are  so  good,  so  frank !  You  could  not  wound  me, 
you  would  not  deceive  me;  you  will  tell  me  the  truth, 
however  cruel  it  may  be.  Shall  I  help  your  avowal? 
Well,  then,  heart  of  mine,  I  shall  be  comforted  by  one 
thought:  Shall  I  not  have  possessed  the  young  being, 
all  grace,  all  beauty,  all  delicacy,  the  Gaston  whom 
no  other  woman  can  ever  know,  but  whom  I,  I  alone, 
have  delightfully  enjoyed? —  No,  you  will  never 
love  again  as  you  have  loved  me;  no,  I  shall  have  no 
rival.  My  memories  will  be  without  bitterness  in 
thinking  of  our  love,  which  will  be  all  my  thought. 
It  is  beyond  your  power  to  enchant  another  woman 
with  the  young  charms  of  a  young  heart,  by  those  dear 


The  Deserted   Woman,  661 

coquetries  of  the  soul,  those  graces  of  the  body,  that 
quick  understanding  of  allurement  —  in  short,  by  the 
whole  adorable  cortege  that  surrounds  adolescent  love. 
Ah!  you  are  a  man  now;  you  will  obey  your  destiny 
by  calculating  everything.  You  will  have  cares, 
anxieties,  ambitions,  troubles  which  will  deprive  her 
of  the  constant  and  unalterable  Bmile  which  was  ever 
on  your  lips  for  me.  Your  voice,  to  me  so  tender, 
will  oftentimes  be  harassed  now.  Your  eyes,  that 
lighted  with  celestial  gleams  on  seeing  me,  will  be 
dim  to  her.  Then,  as  it  is  impossible  to  love  you  as 
I  love  you,  this  woman  will  never  please  you  as  I 
pleased  you.  She  will  never  take  that  perpetual  care 
that  I  have  taken  of  myself  and  that  continual  study 
of  your  happiness,  the  intelligence  of  which  has  never 
failed  me.  Yes,  the  man,  the  heart,  the  soul  that  I 
have  known  will  exist  no  more;  but  I  shall  bury  them 
in  my  memory  to  enjoy  them  still;  I  shall  live  happy 
in  that  beautiful  past  life,  unknowing  of  all  that  is 
not  us, 

"  My  dear  treasure,  if,  nevertheless,  you  have  not 
conceived  the  least  desire  for  liberty,  if  my  love  indeed 
is  not  a  weight  upon  you,  if  my  fears  are  all  chimer- 
ical, if  I  am  still  for  you  j^our  Eve,  the  only  woman 
that  there  is  in  this  world,  come,  come  to  me,  the 
moment  you  have  read  this  letter.  Ah  I  I  will  love 
you  in  that  one  instant  more  than  I  have  loved  you  in 
these  nine  years.  After  having  endured  the  useless 
torture  of  these  doubts,  every  day  that  is  added  to  our 
love,  yes,  every  single  day,  will  be  a  lifetime  of  hap- 
piness. Therefore  speak!  be  frank;  do  not  deceive 
me,  for  that  would  be  a  crime.     Tell  me,  will  yoa 


662  The  Deserted    Woman, 

have  your  liberty?  Have  you  reflected  on  the  life  of 
your  manhood?  Have  you  a  regret?  —  I,  to  cause 
you  a  regret!  oh,  I  should  die  of  it!  I  have  love 
enough  to  prefer  your  happiness  to  mine,  your  life  to 
mine.  Cast  aside,  if  you  can,  the  memory  of  our  nine 
years  of  bliss  that  you  may  not  be  influenced  in  your 
decision;  but  speak!  I  am  submissive  to  you  as  I 
am  to  God,  the  one  consoler  that  remains  if  you 
desert  me." 

When  Madame  de  Beauseant  knew  that  her  letter 
was  in  M.  de  Nueil's  hands  she  fell  into  such  deep 
dejection,  into  a  meditation  that  was  almost  torpid 
from  the  crowding  of  her  overabundant  thoughts,  that 
she  seemed  to  be  half  asleep.  Certainly  she  suffered 
an  anguish  the  intensity  of  which  has  not  always 
been  proportioned  to  a  woman's  strength,  and  yet  it  is 
only  women  who  endure  it 

While  she  thus  awaited  her  fate,  M.  de  Nueil  was, 
on  reading  her  letter,  much  emham^assedy  the  term 
employed  by  all  young  men  in  a  crisis  of  this  kind. 
He  had  already  half  yielded  to  the  instigations  of  his 
mother  and  the  attractions  of  Mademoiselle  de  la 
Rodiere,  a  rather  insignificant  young  girl,  straight  as 
a  poplar,  white  and  pink,  semi-mute,  according,  to  the 
programme  prescribed  for  all  marriageable  girls ;  but 
her  forty  thousand  francs  a  year  from  landed  property 
were  a  sufficient  charm,  Madame  de  Nueil,  with  the 
true  affection  of  a  mother,  desired  to  inveigle  her  son 
into  virtue.  She  pointed  out  to  him  the  flattery  of 
being  preferred  by  Mademoiselle  de  la  Rodiere  when 
BO  many  distinguished  matches  were  offered  to  her; 


The  Deserted   Woman.  563 

it  was  surely  time  to  think  of  his  future;  such  a 
splendid  opportunity  might  never  come  again;  they 
would  have  eighty  thousand  francs  a  year  between 
them  eventually;  fortune  consoled  for  so  much!  If 
Madame  de  Beaus^ant  loved  him  for  himself  she  ought 
to  be  the  first  to  advise  him  to  marry ;  —  in  short,  this 
good  mother  neglected  none  of  the  means  of  action 
by  which  a  woman  influences  a  man's  mind.  She 
had  already  brought  her  son  to  hesitate.  Madame  de 
Beauseant's  letter  came  at  a  moment  when  his  love 
was  still  debating  against  the  seductions  of  a  life  ar- 
ranged with  propriety  and  in  conformity  with  the 
ideas  of  the  world ;  but  the  letter  decided  the  struggle. 
He  resolved  to  part  from  Madame  de  Beauseant  and 
marry. 

"One  must  be  a  man  in  life,"  he  said  to  himself. 

Then  he  reflected  on  the  sufferings  this  resolution 
would  cause  his  mistress.  His  vanity  as  a  man  as 
well  as  his  conscience  as  a  lover  magnified  them  still 
further;  a  sincere  pity  took  possession  of  him.  He 
felt,  all  of  a  sudden,  the  immensity  of  the  misfortune, 
and  he  thought  it  necessary,  charitable,  to  allay  that 
mortal  wound.  He  hoped  by  careful  management  to 
be  able  to  bring  Madame  de  Beauseant  to  a  calmer 
state  of  mind  and  induce  her  to  advise  this  cruel  mar- 
riage, by  accustoming  her  slowly  to  the  idea  of  a  ne- 
cessary separation;  keeping  Mademoiselle  de  la 
Rodi^re  always  between  them  as  a  mere  phantom, 
sacrificing  her  at  first,  that  Madame  de  Beaust^ant 
might  impose  her  upon  him  later.  In  order  to  suc- 
ceed in  this  compassionate  undertaking,  he  went  so 
far  as  to  count  upon  the  nobility,  the  pride,  the  finest 


564  The   Deserted  Woman, 

qualities  in  the  soul  of  his  mistress.  He  therefore 
answered  her  letter  in  a  way  that  he  supposed  would 
lull  her  suspicions. 

Answer  her!  To  a  woman  who  united  to  the  intui- 
tions of  true  love  the  most  delicate  perceptions  of  a 
woman's  mind  an  answer  was  condemnation  to  death. 
When  Jacques  entered  the  room  and  advanced  towards 
Madame  de  Beauseant  to  give  her  a  note,  folded  tri- 
angularly, the  poor  woman  trembled  like  a  captured 
swallow.  A  mysterious  chill  fell  from  her  head  to  her 
feet,  wrapping  her,  as  it  were,  in  a  shroud  of  ice.  If 
he  did  not  rush  to  her,  weeping,  pale,  a  lover,  all  was 
over.  And  yet,  there  is  so  much  hope  in  the  hearts 
of  loving  women!  so  many  stabs  are  needed  to  kill 
them ;  they  love  and  they  bleed  to  the  last. 

"Does  madame  need  anything?"  asked  Jacques, 
in  a  gentle  voice,  as  he  withdrew. 

"No,"  she  said.  "Poor  man,"  she  thought,  wiping 
away  a  tear;  "even  he  divines  it,  a  valet!  " 

She  read:  "My  Beloved,  you  are  creating  for  your- 
self chimeras  —  "  A  thick  veil  fell  upon  her  eyes ; 
the  secret  voice  of  her  heart  cried  to  her:  "He  lies!  " 
Then  her  glance  seized  the  meaning  of  the  whole  first 
page  with  that  species  of  lucid  avidity  given  by  pas- 
sion, and  read  at  the  bottom  of  it  these  words: 
"Nothing  has  been  settled."  Turning  the  page  with 
convulsive  haste  she  saw  distinctly  the  intention 
which  had  dictated  the  involved  evasive  phrases  of 
the  letter,  in  which  there  was  no  longer  the  impetuous 
gush  of  love;  she  crumpled  it,  tore  it,  bit  it,  and  cast 
it  into  the  fire,  crying  out:  — 

*'  Oh  I  infamy !     I  was  his  when  he  did  not  love  me  I  ** 


The  Deserted   Woman,  665 

Then,  half  dead,  she  fell  upon  her  sofa. 

M.  de  Nueil  went  out  to  walk  after  he  had  written 
and  sent  his  letter.  On  his  return,  he  found  Jacques 
at  the  door,  who  gave  him  a  note  and  said :  — 

"Madame  la  marquise  is  not  at  the  chateau." 

Much  astonished,  M.  de  Nueil  opened  the  envelope 
and  read :  — 

"Madame,  if  I  ceased  to  love  you  and  accepted  the 
chances  which  you  propose  to  me  of  becoming  an 
ordinary  man,  I  should  deserve  my  fate  —  admit  it* 
No,  I  shall  not  obey  you,  and  I  swear  to  you  a  fidelity 
which  can  be  unbound  by  death  only.  Oh !  take  my 
life!  —  unless  you  fear  to  put  remorse  in  yours." 

It  was  the  note  he  had  written  to  Madame  de  Beau- 
s^ant  nine  years  earlier,  as  she  started  for  Geneva. 
Beneath  it  Claire  de  Bourgogne  had  written:  "Mon- 
sieur, you  are  free." 

M.  de  Nueil  removed  to  his  mother's  house  at 
Manerville.  Three  weeks  later  he  married  Mademoi- 
selle Stephanie  de  la  Rodiere. 

If  this  history,  very  commonplace  in  its  truthful- 
ness, came  to  an  end  here  it  would  seem  a  mere  hoax 
to  relate  it.  Nearly  every  man  has  something  as 
interesting,  or  more  so,  to  tell  to  himself.  But  the 
noise  made  by  its  final  conclusion,  unhappily  too  true, 
and  all  that  this  tale  brings  back  in  memory  to  the 
hearts  of  those  who  have  known  the  celestial  delights 
of  an  infinite  passion  which  they  have  themselves 
destroyed  or  lost  by  some  cruel  fatality,  may  justify 
its  recital  here  and  shelter  it  from  critics. 


B66  The  Deserted   Woman. 

Madame  de  Beauseant  had  not  left  the  chateau  de 
Valleroy  at  the  time  of  her  separation  from  M.  de 
Nueil.  For  a  multitude  of  reasons  which  we  must 
leave  buried  in  the  heart  of  a  woman  (and  which 
women  themselves  will  divine)  Claire  continued  to 
live  there  after  the  marriage  of  M.  de  Nueil.  Her 
seclusion  was  so  great  that  even  her  servants,  except 
her  maid  and  Jacques,  did  not  see  her.  She  exacted 
absolute  silence  from  all,  and  never  left  her  room 
except  to  go  to  the  chapel  of  the  chateau,  where  a 
priest  of  the  neighbourhood  came  every  morning  to 
say  mass. 

Some  days  after  his  marriage  the  Comte  de  Nueil 
fell  into  a  species  of  conjugal  apathy  which  might  be 
supposed  to  express  happiness  as  much  as  unhappi- 
ness.  His  mother  said  to  every  one:  *'My  son  is 
perfectly  happy." 

Madame  Gaston  de  Nueil,  like  many  young  wives, 
was  rather  tame,  gentle,  and  patient;  she  became 
pregnant  about  a  month  after  marriage.  All  of  which 
conformed  to  the  received  ideas  of  wedlock.  M. 
de  Neuil  behaved  to  her  charmingly ;  only,  about  two 
months  after  his  rupture  with  Madame  de  Beauseant, 
he  became  very  dreamy  and  pensive.  He  had  always 
been  serious,  his  mother  said. 

After  seven  months  of  this  lukewarm  happiness, 
certain  events  occurred,  very  trivial  apparently,  but 
bringing  with  them  too  much  development  of  thought 
and  revealing  too  great  a  trouble  of  soul  not  to  be 
simply  mentioned  here  and  left  to  the  Interpretations 
of  different  minds. 

One  day,  when  M.  de  Nueil  had  been  hunting  in  the 


The  Deserted   Woman,  667 

woods  of  Manerville  and  Valleroy,  he  returned  home 
through  the  park  of  Madame  de  Beaus^ant  and,  stop- 
ping at  the  house,  he  asked  for  Jacques. 

*'Does  Madame  la  marquise  still  like  game?"  he 
asked. 

On  Jacques*  reply  in  the  affirmative,  Gaston  offered 
him  quite  a  large  dole,  accompanied  by  very  specious 
arguments,  in  order  to  obtain  from  him  the  very 
slight  service  of  keeping  for  madame's  own  use  the 
game  he  shot.  It  seemed  very  unimportant  to  Jacques 
whether  Madame  la  marquise  ate  a  partridge  shot  by 
her  keeper  or  by  M.  de  Nueil,  inasmuch  as  the  latter 
insisted  that  she  should  noi  be  told  from  whom  it 
came. 

"It  was  killed  on  her  land,"  said  the  comte. 

Jacques  lent  himself  for  several  days  to  this  inno- 
cent deception.  M.  de  Nueil  went  out  shooting  every 
morning  and  did  not  return  till  dinner  time,  but 
always  without  any  game.  A  whole  week  went  by. 
Then  Gaston  made  bold  to  write  a  long  letter  to 
Madame  de  Beauseant  and  sent  it  to  her.  This  letter 
was  returned  to  him  unopened.  It  was  evening  when 
her  footman  brought  it  back  to  him.  Suddenly  he 
darted  from  the  salon,  where  he  seemed  to  be  listening 
to  a  caprice  of  Herold's  that  his  wife  was  murdering 
on  the  piano,  and  rushed,  with  the  rapidity  of  a  man 
on  his  way  to  a  rendezvous,  to  the  chateau  de  Valleroy. 

Reaching  it,  he  listened  to  the  murmuring  noises 
and  knew  that  the  servants  were  at  dinner.  He  went 
up  instantly  to  Madame  de  Beauseant*s  apartment, 
which  she  now  never  left.  He  was  able  to  reach  the 
door  without  making  any  noise.     There  he  saw,  by 


568  The  Deserted   Woman* 

the  light  of  two  wax-candles,  his  former  mistress, 
emaciated,  pale,  seated  in  a  large  armchair,  her  head 
bowed,  her  hands  pendent,  her  eyes  fixed  on  an  object 
that  she  seemed  not  to  see.  It  was  Sorrow  in  its 
most  complete  expression.  There  was  something  of 
vague  hope  in  this  attitude,  but  no  one  could  have 
told  if  Claire  de  Bourgogne  were  looking  to  the  grave 
or  to  the  past.  Perhaps  the  tears  of  M.  de  Nueil 
glistened  in  the  darkness,  perhaps  his  breathing 
echoed  slightly,  perhaps  an  involuntary  shiver  escaped 
him,  or  it  may  be  that  his  presence  near  her  was  impos- 
sible without  the  phenomenon  of  intussusception,  the 
habit  of  which  is  the  glory,  the  joy,  and  the  proof  of 
veritable  love.  Madame  de  Beauseant  turned  her 
face  slowly  to  the  door  and  saw  her  former  lover.  M. 
de  Nueil  advanced  a  few  steps. 

"If  you  come  nearer,  monsieur,"  she  cried,  turning 
pale,  *'I  will  fling  myself  from  that  window." 

She  sprang  to  the  fastening,  opened  it,  and  put  her 
foot  upon  the  sill,  her  hand  on  the  rail  of  the  balcony, 
as  she  turned  her  head  to  Gaston. 

*'Go!  go!  "  she  cried,  "or  I  throw  myself  down." 

At  that  terrible  cry,  M.  de  Nueil,  hearing  the  ser- 
vants, who  were  roused,  fled  like  a  criminal. 

Returning  home  Gaston  wrote  a  short  letter,  and 
ordered  his  valet  to  take  it  to  Madame  de  Beauseant 
and  tell  her  it  was  a  matter  of  life  and  death.  The 
messenger  gone,  M.  de  Nueil  returned  to  the  salon 
where  his  wife  was  still  at  the  piano.  He  sat  down 
and  awaited  the  answer.  An  hour  later,  husband  and 
wife  were  seated,  silent,  on  either  side  of  the  fireplace 
when  the  v.alet  returned  from  Valleroy  and  handed  his 


The  Deserted  Woman,  569 

master  the  letter,  which  had  not  been  opened.  M.  de 
Nueil  passed  into  a  boudoir  adjoining  the  salon,  where 
he  had  left  his  gun  on  returning  from  the  woods  that 
afternoon,  and  killed  himself. 

This  quick  and  fatal  conclusion  of  his  fate,  so  con- 
trary to  all  the  habits  of  young  France,  was  natural. 

Persons  who  have  carefully  observed,  or  who  have 
delightfully  experienced  the  phenomena  to  which  the 
perfect  union  of  two  beings  gives  rise,  will  compre- 
hend this  suicide.  A  woman  does  not  mould  herself, 
does  not  bend  herself  in  a  single  day  to  the  caprices 
of  passion.  Love,  like  a  rare  flower,  demands  the 
choicest  care  of  cultivation;  time  and  the  harmonizing 
of  souls  alone  can  reveal  its  resources,  and  give  birth 
to  those  tender,  delicate  pleasures  which  we  think 
inherent  in  the  person  whose  heart  bestows  them  upon 
us,  and  about  which  we  cherish  a  thousand  supersti- 
tions. This  wonderful  unison,  this  religious  belief, 
and  the  fruitful  certainty  of  ever  finding  a  special  and 
extreme  happiness  near  the  being  beloved,  are,  in 
part,  the  secret  of  lasting  attachments  and  long  pas- 
sions. Beside  a  woman  who  possesses  the  genius  of 
her  sex  love  is  never  a  habit;  her  adorable  tenderness 
clothes  it  in  forms  so  varied,  she  is  so  brilliant  and 
so  loving,  both,  she  puts  such  art  into  her  nature, 
or  so  much  of  nature  into  her  art,  that  she  makes  her- 
self as  all-powerful  in  memory  as  she  is  by  her  pres- 
ence. Beside  her  all  other  women  pale.  A  man  must 
have  had  the  fear  of  losing  a  love  so  vast,  so  brilliant, 
or  else  he  must  have  lost  it,  to  know  its  full  value. 
But  if,  having  known  it,  a  man  deprives  himself  of  it 
to  fall  into  a  cold  marriage ;  if  the  woman  in  whom  he 


670  The  Deserted  Woman, 

expects  to  meet  with  the  same  felicity  proves  to  him, 
by  some  of  those  facts  buried  in  the  shadows  of  con- 
jugal life,  that  it  can  never  be  reborn  for  him ;  if  he 
still  has  upon  his  lips  the  taste  of  that  celestial  love, 
and  if  he  has  mortally  wounded  his  true  spouse  for  the 
sake  of  a  social  chimera,  then  he  must  either  die  or 
take  to  him  that  material,  cold,  selfish  philosophy 
which  is  the  horror  of  all  passionate  souls. 

As  for  Madame  de  Beauseant,  she  doubtless  never 
supposed  that  her  lover's  despair  would  go  as  far  as 
suicide  after  having  drunk  so  deep  of  love  for  nine 
years.  Perhaps  she  thought  that  she  alone  would 
suffer.  She  had,  moreover,  every  right  to  refuse  the 
most  degrading  joint-possession  that  exists;  a  shar- 
ing which  some  wives  may  endure  for  high  social 
reasons,  but  which  a  mistress  must  hold  in  hatred, 
because  in  the  purity  of  her  love  lies  its  only 
justification. 


THE   COMEDIE    HUMAINE   OF 
HONORB  DE  BALZAC 


CENTENJRT 
EDITION 


Translated  by  Katharine  Prescott 
VVoRMELEY.  Centenary  Edition.  Illus- 
trated  with  nearly  loo  Photogravure  plates 
by  French  artists,  including :  Wagrez, 
Jeanniot,  Georges  Cain,  Adrien  Moreau, 

George  Roux,  Desrousseaux,  Girardet,  Maximilienne  Guyon,  Albert 

Fouri^,  Jules  Muenier,  Gustave  Bourgain,  Duez,  Outin,  and  others. 

Complete  in  34  vols.     i2mo,  cloth,  gilt  top.     Price  per  volume,  $1.50. 

The  set,  34  vols.,  in  half  crushed  morocco,  gilt  top,  $110.50. 

I.    PfeRE  GORIOT. 

II.  Two  Young  Married  Women,  etc. 

III.  Fame  and  Sorrow,  and  Other  Stories. 

IV.  Modeste  Mignon,  and  A  Daughter  of  Eva, 
V.  A  Start  in  Life,  and  Other  Stories. 

VI.  BEATRIX,    and  a  Commission  in  Lunacy. 
VII.  Eugenie  Grandet,  and  Pierrette. 
VIII.  The  Two  Brothers,  and  An  Old  Maid. 
IX.  The  Lily  of  the  Valley,  and  A  Gallery  of  Antiqvitib& 
X.  Ursuia,  and  The  Vicar  of  Tours. 
XI.  Lost  Illusions,  and  The  Illustrious  Gaudissart. 
XII.  The  Great  Man  of  the  Provinces  in  Paris. 

XIII.  Lucien  de  Rubempr6,  and  Duchesse  de  Langbais. 

XIV.  Last  Incarnation  of  Vautrin,  Ferragus,  and  GobsscK* 

XV.    C6SAR   BiROTTEAU,  AND   OTHER   STORIES, 

XVI.  Bureaucracy,  and  Other  Stories. 
XVII.  The  Lesser  Bourgeoisie. 
XVIIL  Cousin  Bette. 
XIX.  Cousin  Pons. 

XX.  The  Chouans,  and  A  Passion  in  the  Desert. 
XXI.  An  Historical  Mystery,  etc. 

XXII.  The  Brotherhood  of  Consolation,  and  Z.  Makcai. 

XXIIL  The  Deputy  of  Arcis, 

XXIV.  The  Country  Doctor. 

XXV.  The  Village  Rector. 

XXVI.  Sons  of  the  Soil. 

XXVII.  Catharine  de'  Medicl 

KXVIII.   The  Magic  Skin,  and  The  Hidden  Masterpiece. 
XXIX.    Louis  Lambert,  and  Other  Stories. 
XXX.    Sebaphita,  and  The  Alkahest. 
XXXI.   Juana,  and  Other  Stories. 
XXXII.    Memoir  of  Balzac. 

XXXIII.  Personal  Opinions  of  Balzac. 

XXXIV.  Le'i-ters  to  Madame  Hanska. 


LITTLE,   BROWN,   AND  CO.,   Publishers,    BOSTON, 


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